The man might have money and power, but he did nothing to keep his possessions looking well.
The sun was halfway to setting and the chill of late autumn was settling along the ridgeline of the hills before Fearchar pointed out his own little cottage. A potager garden in the throws of fall occupied the frontage. It was a non-descript rock cottage like many of the others Eoin had passed along the way. The familiarity of it’s placement caused his stomach to churn. A chimney designated it as a new residence. It had been built up on an old burned out foundation. Smoke climbed into the sky, leaving the walk up the drive smelling like memories that Eoin had wished to leave buried.
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