out ahead a ways and see how far off it was.
She walked back up to the trail with a short bag and the lantern. Oats snoozed on next to a scattering of tack, unaware her friend was braving the night without her. The overgrowth died down after a while and the cobblestone became more uniform and less broken up. It was an odd thing. Parts of the road looked almost maintained while long stretches were completely ruined. She had gone about fifty paces before the trees started to die.
She didn’t notice it at first, only a handful of dead branches here and there in the tiny glow of her lantern. But the deeper she went, the more barren all the trees were. They stood there like skeletal sentinels, leaving long fingered shadows all around. Mary kept her eyes on the ground in front of her, on the lookout for that stray stick or hole that was bound to trip her up. She would glance up ahead every few steps to scan for a change in the dark. Just as she was sure it must be further than she thought, Mary walked into an iron gate.
The gate was rusted and blackened but still firmly closed. She strained her eyes but couldn’t see anything through the bars. No building, no sign of life. She decided to follow the iron fence a ways and see if there was another way in. Nothing, same for a way of reaching someone inside the grounds. She walked to the left of the gate and after a short while came across an odd scene. The fence here had fallen over. Parked in front of the hole were two different vehicles.
An old coach leaned to the left on broken wheels closest to her. The cab had been something else in its day, judging by the ornate woodwork above the windows. There was even red, rotting fabric inside. It was a in a gaudy style that fell out of fashion years ago. It must have been sitting here in disrepair for a while. She gave the leather reigns a tug and they broke down in her hand. Next to it sat a pristine cart.
The wood was bight and new, it couldn’t have seen a single winter. The metal nails even sparkled a bit when she inspected the cart closer. It was a single horse model. After she found the maker's mark along the driver's seat, Mary couldn’t help but smile. Darby Brothers. They were known across all the land for expert craftsmanship and cost quite a bit. She’d had a Darby not too long ago. As she recalled how she’d lost it, Mary cupped her backside. A tingling ran down a scar on her left cheek.
Dead Letters: In The Ruins Of Hope Page 2