Muse

Searching For Brigid

There she sat, ever watchful over the gardens. The birds came to her, almost weightless on her shoulders, and sang to her. Squirrels and rabbits and the occasional tabby played at her feet. Children stared at her, wondering if she might move.

Muse.

That’s what they called her, though she didn’t know why. She wasn’t even sure what it meant.

Her dress did not sway in the breeze. Her hair stayed neat and tidy. Never was she cold nor was she ever hungry. But she always seemed so sad.

Her arm outstretched, reaching for something in the distance; she couldn’t quite remember what is was, though, it had been so long.

Muse.

She felt a longing; and melancholy wave crashed over her like the many thunderstorms that ravaged the gardens. Her roses had suffered terribly this year.

This year.
What year was it?
How long had she been frozen in…

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