He went to work with the lump hammer and chisel. A condiment of dust filtered down to the floor, collected in piles about his boots. He saved time by making every stone in advance.
A woman who came in today needed one for her husband. Cancer, the poor fellow. He started work on hers too. The increased stress of burying him would be the end of her.
He formed the designs she would ask for, hydrangeas and lilies, but put his tools away before names or dates. Too early would seem beyond coincidence. Too prophetic. An advertisement for witch hunters.
Chalk Snow 