I placed some flowers on the unnamed grave.
I’d come to this churchyard to find the headstone of a famous man. Partly through masochism, because I doubt I’ll be remembered myself. Partly it’s trainspotting with cadavers.
I didn’t find him. Instead, I found this. A tiny headstone. No name. Just a few carved swirls and a date: 1872.
I may not have fresh flowers in 100 years, but I’ll still have a name.
My hobby remains morbid, but I’ve changed who I’m hunting. Should you ever find a new bunch of roses on an untended grave, that’s where I’ve been.