twelve
Rows of sturdy stables line up behind the main house. New outhouses, massive barns. The stables were prosperous when I was a child, but they were nothing like this. The horse trade must really have taken off under the guidance of Uncle and his sons.
I stall for a moment. There’re no horses out in the fields, and it would never be allowed in the paddock. I turn left. It must be in the old stable, the one where our family horses used to be. With an assured step, I turn left. My eyes spot the old crimson barn door.
The door slides as reluctant as it was back then. I hunch my shoulder behind the rusted latch. It screeches opens; the spiky smell of fresh grass itches my nose. The mellow afternoon sun lights the entrance of the barn but doesn’t have the strength to shine the entire way
