Walker stood waist-deep in the strewn, empty corpses of at least a dozen cardboard boxes. Stacks of paper joined the c*****e, as well as a handful of landscape paintings over a century old, every drawing he and his brothers had ever created, old newspapers from the nearest human town dating back to the First World War, and a set of love letters between his parents that were wrapped up with a piece of twine.
He’d set those aside with all the care in the world, fighting the uneasy urge to read them. Everyone deserved privacy, even in death.
Plus, he didn’t want to think about what depraved things they might have written to each other. Naturally, he and his siblings were all immaculately conceived.
Well, that was his story and he was sticking to it.
And all of this, the paper and the
