He placed the invisible carving on the fountain’s edge, and for a moment—just a moment—the fountain was no longer dry. Water ran over the mossy stone, clear and cold, and I heard a child’s laugh from a year that no longer existed.
Remsl smiled. It was a small, inward thing, like a knot in wood. “Same sickness. You try to trap what’s gone. I try to set it free.” He placed the invisible carving on the fountain’s
I met Remsl on a Thursday, which was market day, though the market had been dead for thirty years. I was there to catalogue the ruins for the Historical Society—a fool’s errand, as the Society had no money and the ruins had no interest in being catalogued. It was a small, inward thing, like a knot in wood
“Homes,” he said. “I carve the homes people have forgotten they lived in. Not the walls. The space inside the walls. The warm pocket of air where a child hid during hide-and-seek. The bit of hallway where two people fell in love on a rainy Tuesday. The silence in the pantry after a good meal.” I try to set it free
“Don’t cry,” Remsl said, not unkindly. “That’s just the shape of it settling into you. It’s meant to fit.”