In a small town, not far from Chicago, there sits a hill. Atop this hill there is a house, not a big house, but certainly not modest.
Children will play on the hill underneath the house, teenagers will dare their friends to spend a night at the "Haunted Hill" and adults make jokes about the "Dead House". They couldn't be more right. No one knows the love and happiness that filled those rooms, and they can't imagine the pain they felt when their inhabitants left.
If you pay close enough attention you'll see that every day an old woman walks up the hill, sometimes with assistance, and sometimes without, but she always carries a picnic basket and she'll sit. Sunrise to Sunset. If she's hungry, she'll eat, if she's thirsty, she'll drink, but she won't speak a word.
If you ask her what her connection to the house is, she'll tilt her head and say "A family used to live there. In the end, their names don't matter, but they did something amazing, something impossible."
"What's that?" You'll ask
She'll laugh and reply with "They lived a life worth living."
One day the house will be torn down, replaced with a park or an apartment building, and if you go and ask the woman what happened, she'll smile a sad little smile, and say four words, then her eyes will close and you'll be left wondering who she was.
"The End has Come"
Author's Note:
This particular story is written by a friend of mine, who didn't have the time or really the context to publish it, hope you like it.
-Caligula
