The wall was made of wind-worn blocks of stone, some standing safe and others tumbled down. Their solid squareness gave a sense of purpose to the shape, a certainty that other hands besides the wind and rain and fate worked here.
The mother climbed, her shoulders stooped, a boulder slung in her arms. She chipped and cut, fitting the new square block into a gap. Then another stone fell.
Meanwhile a small ghost watched from a corner of the room, fingers drifting, words to tell. The carving on the floor declared, “Born 1801; died 1802; I’ll never let you go.”