Kitobni o'qish: «My autumn leaves»

The cemetery was an endless plain strewn with dead bodies. Rot and decomposition filled the air, leaving behind only foul traces. Every step in this place was accompanied by the crunch of old branches, and moisture from the ground slowly seeped through, forming something resembling a bloody mass spreading around. It felt as if this land was mourning those who rested here.

Amidst the decay and desolation, I, the caretaker of this grim abode, spent my days: each step taken with effort, the cold wind penetrating to the very soul.

I felt how this place weighed on me. Most often, I simply walked around the graves, straightening broken plaques and clearing cluttered areas of dirt. My work seemed meaningless, but I couldn't refuse it: this cemetery was my life. The nights here were especially heavy. Moonlight barely pierced through the clouds, as if ashamed to illuminate this land. The sound of distant sparrows, occasionally breaking the silence, reminded me that life still existed somewhere beyond this silent plain. Sometimes I thought I heard whispers. Perhaps it was the wind, or perhaps something else…