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It’s always quiet here on the hillside. The evergreens dull the noise from the city below. Visitors speak in hushed tones. At night, it’s usually just the frogs and I.

Sitting in the grass, I like to think. Not about anything complicated, more like reflection, really. The scent from the flowers in the garden lifts my spirits. I select some of them, water on occasion, but the groundskeeper does most of the work. I mostly just sit nearby and admire the flowers while I gaze over the gravestones in the evening twilight.

Sometimes I’m not alone, like tonight. He always keeps his distance, but I feel him watching. He’s a silhouette between two mighty firs. I only spot him at night.

I think he belongs to the graveyard.

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