The ghosts come to greet us, and in the graveyards dance, raising skeletal fingers to the sky, twining arms covered in paper-thin skin, stomping feet without meat enough to make sound.
But where are those of ours who died free from plague-touch? Where are our families? Fathers, mothers, true ancestors?
Even the dead forsake us.
But where are those of ours who died free from plague-touch? Where are our families? Fathers, mothers, true ancestors?
Even the dead forsake us.