She liked to imagine that the stones held stories, and that the walls of the ancient corridors could whisper secrets long kept. Trailing her fingertips lightly along the cool stone walls that danced with the shadows cast by the light of the fading sun, she walked quietly through the ancient remains of a castle that had seen the birth of a queen, and the death of another. How she wished she could just stand and let the scenes of the past play out before her eyes, like an old film, a little blurry at the edges but there. Perhaps, she thought, closing her eyes tightly, if she stood still enough, silent enough, the edges of time would fade like a thin veil of early morning mist and let her fall into history.
She sighed then, wistful. Feeling impossibly like her wish was somehow like a cup on the top shelf. Something her fingers couldn’t quite grasp no matter how hard she strained, there but just out of reach.
There is something of magic in certain places of the world.
Old places where crumbling stone now stands, ancient places where myths and fairytales suddenly don’t seem so make-believe, sad places where blood once soaked the earth like rain. The stories long ended in places like that leave their imprint so loudly she could hear the echoes hundreds of years later, beckoning her to learn, to understand, to wonder. And to remember.
Yes, to remember most of all.