There lay a beaten path flanked by thick shrubbery and tall imposing oaks–where the afternoon sunlight barely peaks through the foliage and deafening silence–Grim was used to the scenery, having grown fond of the solace as she strolled along. No older than twelve, where most children would frolic their free time to play with friends, she preferred the company of the woods more than anything.

It was a fairly lengthy walk that memories of the dull morning replayed, as the youngest of five; there was nothing for her to do in the farm. Afternoon school was as monotonous as ever, nothing could ever excite her than the sound of the bell and being finally free to go to her favorite spot.

Humming along the creak of leaves underneath her feet, she adjusted the weight of the basket on her shoulders as she hopped over a familiar large log, withered and mossy, as she did numerous times. And so she goes, tracing the beaten path. A left, followed by a right, across a small stream is a crossroad. Take another left until one reaches an empty clearing.

She could not contain a small grin as she crawled through a thick bush, unmindful of the leaves and twigs sticking into her red hair.

It was another, wider clearing, with faint traces of tilled soil despite the natural foliage reclaiming it. It was once a thriving farmland, and yet no one remembered such a place. Not even her mother who lived here her entire life. It is as if the last remaining trace of memory has finally passed on to the fleeting winds of time. How strangely comforting, Grim thought to herself.

Strange as it was, she envied it, being able to exist without worrying if you are remembered, as it was that drew her here in the first place, to a relic of no bearing significance. In the edge of the clearing lay a farmhouse, its stone walls withered by time and clung on by ivy. Broken tiles littered around as there are numerous holes in its roofing. A wide gap opened the porch which Grim used to enter. The inside was no different, broken furniture littered the floor, framed by a wall that has faded over the years.

But one spot remained pristine which she claimed as her own little world. Grim sat down, unbothered by dust permeating in the air. The sight of an empty, forgotten home, where sunlight etched along the walls gave her a strange peace. Perhaps because she finds the emptiness more honest than the ones she felt in her family. She reached for a sandwich in her basket, only to pause when she heard a faint mewl.

A kitten, no older than a few weeks, patches of orange or brown she could not tell from all that dirt. It was hiding behind a cabinet, likely left by its own mother. The mewling thing crawled towards her with all the energy it has left, uncaring for its own safety. It was small, shivering and alone. What else could she do, other than to hand it a piece of her tuna?

“You too, huh.” Grim muttered hugging her knees, watching the little thing gorges its first proper meal in a long while.