The first thing the creature felt was rain, lightly drizzling on its face. It stayed still for a while, enjoying the feeling of the warm water covering its stoney skin. Curious as to what they were feeling, their eyes flickered open, not without considerable effort. Their surroundings were grassy, quiet, and lonely. A field of sorts, they could faintly make out a black gate far away from where they were. The only thing that stood out to them were the many lined rows of stone slabs sticking out of the ground. Some seemed new, others seeming like they’d been in the field for a lifetime and then some. Some were disheveled, eroded by time, covered in dirt and vines. Others were pristine and clean, polished to perfection, with bouquets and coins left before that, not dissimilar to tributes given to Gods and the like. Some were shaped like crosses, some resembled obelisks, and some were simple semi-oval stones. 

The creature struggled to move their head, and then their arms, and then their torso. It seemed like they’d been placed in an odd position, with their body resting against one of the slabs. Looking down at their gray, cold arms, covered in flora and lightly-washed-away grime, they understood what they were. A statue. They were stone, just like everything else here, just stone created with a visual purpose. They felt something weighing on their back, turning to look behind them, they saw rocky wings stuck to their back. An angel statue at that?  

What purpose would they have here, being in a field of stone slabs and tributes rather than a church, or in a public area? What significance did their presence here serve?  

What were these stones anyway?  

They decided to look at the stone they’d previously spent an unknown amount of time residing on. They could make out words on the surface of it, but they were covered by weeds and hedges. They clumsily ripped away the plant life covering its words, reading what was underneath. 

“Here Lies Dee Cecille, a kind soul, taken too soon. 1984-2005.” 

A blanket of realization covered them, a deep understanding of their purpose dawning on them. These were not simple stones sticking out of the ground, placed randomly in some nondescript field. These were graves, and this was a graveyard. They’d been built to honor and protect this grave in specific, to serve as a tribute to this woman’s memory. But this grave had been abandoned it seemed, left to fend on its own against invasive vines and natures erosion. The angel was the last thing this lonely grave had, forgotten by the ones who’d crafted it in the first place.  

Understanding their duty, the angel got to work. It collected rainwater in its palms, using it to gently clean the grave of its dirt. It ripped away the rest of the flora covering its surface, placing it to the side. Finally, it rested its body back against its side, reassuming their position from before. It promised to protect this lone grave, and with that, this eternally young woman’s memory. 

-Nicky Newsome