The graveyard was so neat. Row upon row of white marble tombstones all rising from the thick blanket of snow. Each one was perfect, polished and exactly the same as all of the others, except the name it bore. They were lined up perfectly with those in front and behind, a city block for the dead.
Life is but a roaming shadow, a pitiable thespian. Who struts and frets his few moments upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale imparted by a foolish wit, full of noise and fury... yet meaningless nonetheless.
A beautiful lie.
A depressing truth.
And beyond the hedgerows and white picket fence, a new grave would arrive...
Serafina stood with her hands in her coat pockets, staring at the expressionless face of the woman whom she once had lovingly called "mom", but what sort of a
