Those who still live in or near the old Bastion mark their paths by landmarks. The abandoned substation; the caravan in the copse; the grave by the cottage.
Some have come to leave markers of their own - maybe in hope of becoming a landmark themselves; maybe in hope of honouring these reminders of what used to be. The grave by the cottage is soon laden with these gifts. Smooth, colourful stones; crumbling handfuls of flowers; empty bullet casings. The headstone, small and makeshift as it is, is buried under the pile. The epitaph, a simple name and short prayer, has not been read in years.
Sometimes, travellers wonder aloud to one another about the body under the mound of soil. 'Whoever lived here, surely.'
'But then, who buried them? No, it must have been a friend.'
'Maybe it was a stranger.'
'Who cares? We didn't know them.'
When the grave was first dug, it was beautiful. Careful, respectful, following the desires of the chierk and of the chierk's owner. When the grave is visited now, it is beautiful. Careful, respectful, following the instincts of passers-by. A resting place piled high with love from those who never knew the person they grieve. And, if they did know that person - they'd leave greater gifts still.
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