The wood sliced for these names had darkened with age so it paled against the bark like the dessicated flesh of a yellow fruit. She ran a finger along the fretted letters, her eyebrows drew together and filled with a stern feeling, she wished  suddenly that not a single one of them had ever been born to fit a blade in their hand to make vain impermanent markings on living things.

From All the Living by C.E. Morgan, a novel that sucked me in for its 199 perfect pages of lonely souls and Kentucky farmland and difficult love, and still hasn’t let me go.

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