New England, 1873

3,581 words – approx. 12 minutes

The light that George Hepworth held up to the window was close to extinction. His eyesight was good, but even with this advantage and the aid of the forceful moon overhead he could barely make out the figures against the horizon. Four men, each with a spade and a belief. In the half-light George fancied that he could see them, creeping in the night as though it were an ambush, moving closer to the copse that he knew to be there even though it was too dark to see. Moving closer to the graveyard.

Closer to Elizabeth.

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