The sun came out from behind the clouds, and the dirty wet street, with its ruts full of rain, gleamed like gold. All was silent in the dead city. I pulled off my dripping coat and let the dawn wash me in its warming light.
The towering, empty buildings—empty but for the shadows within—seemed then like great, sepulchral stones, monuments to the long dead.
And what was I? A ghoul living in a graveyard? A groundskeeper of man’s final resting place? A ghost myself, a memory of all that was?
Yet still, I can cast my eyes upon the rising sun. Whatever I am, whoever—I had a name which the shadows still whisper when they are scratching at my door—I am at peace. Noon will come; and evening; and even the night will fall. Yet here, in this silence, there is only the beauty of the sun.
Tale Told 