The ground is cold, so hard, beneath snow and ice. Fog swirls around the headstones, the few bare trees lingering like sentinels along the grounds of the ever sleeping. It may be hallowed ground, but it is haunted by the memories of lives from over a century of those buried under the cold-packed earth. Sounds linger through the fog and over the snow - the hoot of an owl, tree branches snapping in the wind, a hushed and muffled whisper of movement from somewhere. The ghosts mourn here for eternity, huddled in the shifting shadows, seeking warmth from the memories of their previous lives.
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