Not A Place Dead

The iron gate stood open, red as ever. The wide, gray path leading from the gate was littered with leaves. Its low stone wall a simple boundary only, serving to keep the superstitious out and the remorseful souls in, but a curious eye easily could gaze beyond. At this time of night, everything was bathed in blue light.

Rumors flew about the inhabitants of the mausoleum deep within and the ghosts said to walk among the headstones in the lawn before. They said to never walk here at night.

That was my favorite time to venture in. Something about the red and gray and blue was proud. It wore its age gracefully, defying time. The gate taunted the neighbor children with the occasional creak, like an old man chasing the ruffians from his lawn, but it meant no real harm.

Once inside, one needed to shed off the distractions of the world and truly see and hear and believe. Then the most curious things would happen. The place would sing with color and dance with whimsy. It was not a place dead, but very much alive.

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