The End

“He laughed and bent over to pluck the plant but before he did, he was frozen by a haunting melody in an unfamiliar tongue.  Looking up, he saw a singing woman stacking wood next to a small house.  With a grin, he stood up and walked toward her, leaving the flower.”
You look up from the gray ash pile. The old man is staring at the ground. The wind plays a song through the leaves. You clear your throat. He scratches his head slowly. The distant sound of a passing car penetrates the woods.
He looks up and nods. “It is a good telling.”
“Thanks.”