A garden of stones, the earth fertile with death and forgotten memories, lies forsaken. Its boarder is of wrought iron, metal twisted like vines of ivy, and no caretaker comes now to fight that green and living thing the fence merely imitates. In a few years more, you will not see this solid work of man; it will be overrun by the bending things of God. The gate still works. The portal will open, though who will be let in, or let out again, I do not know.
It is a quiet place, for the faces of the stones are weathered and can speak no more of what lies below. By now, little remains; even bones will dissolve with time. It is also a place that they do not go. I cannot explain it, but there are legends, some strange remembrance of a name, Hallowed. Of all the things that are forgotten, we still remember this is hallowed ground. Both the living and seemingly the dead remember.
Tale Told 