The dried golden grass crunched under her feet as she walked the cemetery. Inadvertently, she stumbled upon the hidden resting place on the grounds of the deteriorating manor.
The stone birdbath, worn out by time and weather, still stood peacefully on the first plot. The angel, her eyes closed in peaceful slumber, tilted her head softly as if to bring one ear closer to heavenly whispers. Her feathered wings, carved with intricate detail, surrounded the welcoming bath for God’s creation.
Etched into the base was only a name: Isabella
Raelyn Pracht 