Sunday, August 22, 2021

The remains of a structure smolder and smoke at the edge of my lands. Was it a bridge to safety? A storehouse of treasure?

I burnt down the barn. Kept inside was heap upon heap of woe, catalogued and collected bit by bit. I kept it all with pride, proof of my worth, my diligence.

Dawn came, and I saw there was no use to be made of my secret wealth. These coins I could not spend.

Burn.

(Letter #2,416)