He hid the journal beneath his torso, brushing away the snow with the delicate touch of a thief removing a magic pendant from the neck of a sleeping beauty. There, beneath the poem, in markings so slight as to be confused with a trick of light, shadow and rill upon the page, waited a postscript. But the fog that had momentarily retreated from his eyes rushed back, taking with it all evidence of his humanity. For this reason, even though they glared back at him in his own accusatory hand, he did not see the words.
They read simply: She will come.
END CHAPTER 1
Stacked-Up Book Thoughts: Spring Reading - Spring has definitely sprung in central Pennsylvania! Thanks to a changing climate, everything is blooming at the same moment: forsythia, tulips, forget-me...