In the fog, her eyes were black as night, as a ravens wing, glimmering like gemstones. Wandering the gothic church, McCleod’s grave stood before us. Its obelisk, grey, moss-laden, aged, rose into the fog to hide with the trees. She walked behind it, seeming, for a moment, to disappear into the grey woods. Time was still, silent. All was cold. She touched my hand and said, I’ve always wanted to return to my father.
