The Eternal Doom

Chapter Eight Coffin to bury

The past of Mr. Walter blushed away from the sight of Ginger for now, as the dark rocks and leaves danced in the woods. There awoke dull grey dawn, echoed by the whispers of running wind, with the glowing shadows of the sky falling over the sluggish paths. There was Walter Albert, walking among the oak woods and pine trees. The track was so blurred with the crawling leaves, dancing, falling down from the invisible stair of wind in the immortal dream. Hearing as he passed across them, he saw as the old leaves were falling, and the new ones were arriving in his dreamy world, swaying wildly in the silent wind, where the sky rumbled something over the immortal world. He walking silently with some pages, a kind of diary, gripped by his hands, making his way quite comfortably, losing himself over the sideway, with the branches loaded with small lemon-yellow leaves covering over the sideway path, like a shed, and they were all scattered around. 

Mr. Walter looked as if they reminded him of some memory; after crossing the young blooming trees, he paused over a very broad tree, which stood with its dark empty vines. He stood fixed near the tree, watching as the wind passed around him, failing to swing its barren branches, where the others kept on swinging. "I remember playing around you, hiding behind you," Mr. Walter said with a bitter smile on his face, scanning the tree which was touched by some strange light over it. Suddenly the smile dropped from his face, as he whispered, "You are not breathing anymore, where I am still standing in front of you." His eyes were now roving over the tree as if trying to solve something. "You have reached your end finally, or are you still playing by some angels? Are you not?" He stood, and the silence crawled. "Yes, I hope you might still be accompanied by the angels, who sometimes land on your barren branches, solving the riddle of the immortal world."

The light grey mist was running in the small graveyard, right on his way to the small chapel. He crossed the graveyard at the side of the winding path, where the flowers and wild grass were growing by themselves. He stood on the way, examining its small ordinary entrance. He saw as the huge bells, hanging over the top of the church, started to toll, swinging here and there, the dark grey sky shading out some pale golden beams on the surface. It seemed as if the dark grey color of the sky was slightly touched by the dull beams of golden glitter; as if God were letting something fall from the sky, undefined shades of the atmosphere. Mr. Walter was now reaching near to it, with a dumbfounded expression on his face, as he padded inside its dull entrance, where the red rugs were stretching in a line on the dark floor of the chapel, with its old smell. Mr. Walter moved in the silent atmosphere, which could properly be seen from the elongated windows; he sped over the carpet, a kind of way between the wooden benches of oak. The wood seemed so old, and kind of broken, too; yet the benches were all so empty that he presumed that only the silence was inside. And all this kind of made him a little curious, as it was a Sunday, and he didn't find a lot of humans around there, as if they had forgotten the way to church, so empty so that the dumb voices of Mr. Walter's own footsteps were coming to him. A couple of old people started to take some kind of observing glance at him. 

They saw as Mr. Walter finally chose his place next to the old lady, who was wearing a red check rolled around her head, where her eyebrows were too thick and white, so that, almost camouflaged over her white skin there, wrinkles were appearing so prominently on her small round face as to make her more like a sparrow.

It was total silence when Mr. Walter turned his back on the old empty benches toward the two old couples. A man with a broad chin with a heavy beard, and his wife, seemed kind of stout and chubby. Mr Walter put a bleak smile on his face, as he said "Hello!" to them.

The old couple returned a reply in a well-bred manner, saying "Hello, sir."

The throng of people kept on watching Mr. Walter, as if trying to say, "Are you the Walter Albert, the author?" But it seemed that the ordinary appearance of him somehow assured them that it's not him; maybe he just resembled him. They themselves seemed very unfamiliar to him.