Micro #7

MONUMENT

She stood before the wooden gate. The night was quiet and peaceful.

The house and gate, both freshly painted, stood empty.

The singular lamp post glowed softly in the moonlight.

Had it been fifty years? Fifty years since he’d saved her?

She was the leader now. The scandal of her father’s house all but forgotten.

But not him. Not the old man. He would be remembered into eternity.

The house had been his. It would never be another’s. She would not allow it.

She still remembered the day of her return, her father’s look and her mother’s tears.

The old man had remained. She had not known until much later what the true tale was.

But he had kept his silent vow, he’d protected her and her people.

It had been ten years since his passing. Ancient then, feeble of body but not mind.

No one knew how old he was when he finally passed on, but older than counting.

This house, his house, would remain his as long as she ruled, as long as she breathed.

A silent reminder to her people. There was goodness in the world, you just had to look.

The weapon rested low on her hip. His weapon, now her weapon. His last gift to her.

She turned and strode into the darkness. She was not afraid.

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