Four broken and tumbled columns remain in that deserted waste. Slowly the foliage creeps over their ruins, but faceless gardeners return to clear the forest away. They are at times kept back for fear of discovery, and it is at these times when whispers of the place are heard, when men flock to see the columns, that they are the most unkempt, hidden under the persistent growth of the forest. It is in the quiet times, after the sight is seen and men return to their cities, that silently the gardeners will sneak to their work again.
You may never find a gardener at this task, for they are far wiser than the men of this generation. I have not been to the columns, at least I cannot remember going there. There was a man I met who said they were nothing, just some toppled columns in a glen. Yet, so many, and so various are the reports of that place I hardly credit him. I did once happen upon an exhibit showcasing a thousand different artistic renditions of those columns. I must, I hope, have seen them then if ever I where to see them.
She once said to meet her there, but I did not think she meant it. I’ve not seen her since. Sometimes I wonder if she did go and is still there waiting in her white dress. I hope some gardener has taken pity on her; if you see her by the columns say I am dead and will not be coming.
Tale Told 
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