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It was a strange place, she decided. Mount Vernon, Ohio was a strange place. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Too quiet compared to the city, too quiet compared to the Tower, too quiet compared to the Compound, too quiet compared to her home back in Novi Grad, Sokovia.
Wanda swallowed. Her shoes dug into the soft earth beneath her feet, marring the sneakers’ white sidewalls with brown dirt.
But she didn’t care.
Somewhere above her head, a bird happily chirped at its young, evident by the excited squeaks complementing their chirps. The bird was most likely in the process of feeding them if her vague recollection of avian trivia wasn’t failing her.
But she didn’t care.
Leaves rustled and flew about as a gust of wind blew throughout the cemetery, several of the warped brown pieces of foliage making a home in her hair.
But she didn’t care.
Because she couldn’t lose. She couldn’t lose her will. She couldn’t lose the staring contest she’d struck up with the sight in front of her. She couldn’t lose now, not after she’d already lost so much.
So, she stared.
And the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—stared right back.
She stared at the tombstone’s STONE’S—just a stone, a stone—thick, dark border, tracing it with her eyes.
And the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—stared right back.
She stared at the STONE’S—just a stone, a stone—center, her gaze tracing both the angular lines and circular border of the custom etching displayed front and center amidst the gray canvas.
And the STONE—just a stone, a stone—stared right back.
She stared at the STONE’S—just a stone, a stone—base, where an assorted collection of flowers, candles, notes, and stuffed animals decorated the grass immediately surrounding the STONE.
And the stone, along with ‘Her’ three favorite teddy bears, stared back.
To her credit, Wanda did not blink as she eyed the stone. She’d beat the stone, she’d won against the stone.
But that was simply a Pyrrhic victory. That was simply a false victory. That was simply a pathetic attempt to stall the inevitable.
To her credit, Wanda only blinked after she eyed ‘Her’ teddy bears once more. She couldn’t beat the teddy bears, she’d lost against the bears.
But maybe, just maybe, that was one loss she could take, could accept, could live with, even after the litany of losses she had failed to prevent.
To her credit, Wanda only let herself go here and now. She let herself go, standing in front of ‘Her’ grave in the middle of a cemetery in Mount Vernon, Ohio. She let herself go, tears falling from her eyes and spilling down her cheeks like ‘She’ had fallen on Vormir and spilled ‘Her’ blood across the bottom of the cliff.
Except, one fall was heroic, a self-sacrificial act befitting the winner, the hero, that the Black Widow was, while the other was pathetic, a self-pitying act befitting the loser, the failure, that the Scarlet Witch was.
At least Wanda had had the decency to wait until the blonde woman, whose dress style, whose accent, whose demeanor had reminded Wanda far too much of the person she’d come to visit, had left. It wouldn’t have been decent for Wanda to burden the woman with her own shortcomings, after all.
But Wanda had not had the decency to wait out of earshot. She had not had the decency to give the woman a private moment with ‘Her,’ her ‘Her’. She had not had the decency to turn a deaf ear to the woman’s heartbroken pleas, crying and demanding and begging for her “сестра” to come back, to come back and crack a joke, to come back with her arms open ready for a hug.
The woman had then whistled a note, low before it ascended, and after a few moments of silence, she’d all but run out of the cemetery.
And Wanda had not had the decency to run after her, tell her that she wasn’t alone, tell her that she wasn’t alone in her grief, her pain, her sorrow. But she had had the decency to wait two minutes before slipping out from the large tree she had selected as her hiding place.
She had come to scream, to cry, to grieve to, for, and with the one woman who had truly understood her. But twenty minutes had passed since those two minutes, and she had no voice, yet wanted to scream. She had no voice, yet wanted to cry. She had no voice, yet wanted to grieve.
Why couldn’t she grieve?
Wanda swallowed. Her shoes dug into the soft earth beneath her feet, marring the sneakers’ white sidewalls with brown dirt.
Why couldn’t she grieve?
Somewhere above her head, the bird happily chirped at its young and—
Why couldn’t she grieve?
She could blink. She could take a breath. She could tear up. She could cry. She could outline the text engraved carved into the stone’s face. She could spell it out with her eyes, mapping the As, Ns, Os, Fs, and other letters sandwiched in between with her gaze.
But she couldn’t turn it into a word. She couldn’t take those letters, angular and circular all the same, and connect them. She couldn’t connect them to spell out the name she simultaneously wanted to scream over and over and over again and never wanted to whisper once more.
“N-A-T-A-S-H-A R-O-M-A-N-O-F-F” was just a collection of letters. “N-A-T-A-S-H-A R-O-M-A-N-O-F-F” was just a label for this stone. “N-A-T-A-S-H-A R-O-M-A-N-O-F-F” was just a marker for this stone’s visitors to ensure they paid their respects to the correct one.
However, ‘She’ was not just a collection of letters. ‘She’ was not just a label for this stone. ‘She’ was not just a marker for this stone’s visitors to ensure they paid their respects to the correct one.
‘She’ was a person, a person who had lived a life of not just grief, pain, and sorrow but also of joy, exhilaration, and solace. ‘She’ was a hero, a hero who had lived a life of not just loss but also of triumph. ‘She’ was a girlfriend, a girlfriend who had lived a life that ‘She’ never would’ve traded for anything in the world but also a life that ‘She’ always would have traded for one, particular person in the world.
‘She’ was not reducible to a collection of letters, a label, a marker.
But “N-A-T-A-S-H-A R-O-M-A-N-O-F-F” was.
No.
‘She’ was.
“N-A-T-A-S-H-A R-O-M-A-N-O-F-F” is.
‘She’ was a person, a hero, a girlfriend. ‘She’ was Wanda’s person, Wanda’s hero, Wanda’s girlfriend.
She reached into her right pocket, fingering the red velvet ring box, the red velvet ring box that she had picked out several months before the Snap with Steve’s and Sam’s assistance. Her shoes dug into the soft earth beneath her feet, marring the sneakers’ white sidewalls with brown dirt.
But ‘She’ was not, and would never be, a wife. ‘She’ was not, and would never be, Wanda’s wife.
Wanda’s free hand twitched as Chaos magic threatened to spill out and destroy, consume, erase her surroundings, while her occupied hand twitched as she ran her fingers over the ring box’s fluffy exterior.
Wanda’s free hand balled into a fist as she contained her Chaos magic, holding herself back from destroying, consuming, erasing her surroundings, while her occupied hand balled into a fist around the ring box after its deft fingers flipped the box open inside her pocket.
Wanda’s free hand unclasped, gingerly rising from her side. Her occupied hand unclasped, gingerly rising up and out from her pocket. Her free hand and occupied hand, both unclasped, met in the middle at about sternum level, gingerly cradling the ring box in her palms.
In the dying fading sunlight, the ring still shone. In the dying fading sunlight, the ring, a black iron band, still shone. In the dying fading sunlight, the ring, adorned with two gemstones, one garnet with the other obsidian, still shone.
She ghosted a thumb over the ring’s adornment. Garnet and obsidian, red and black. While the gemstones didn’t necessarily match up with their birth months, the stones were pretty enough that she could overlook the minor inaccuracy. It was a simple design, one that she had forged by her own hands imbued with Chaos magic. The obsidian formed the basis, the platform, the foundation of the design, forming a circle atop the iron ring. Contained with that circle was the garnet that formed the two vital elements of the ring’s embellishments.
The Black Widow emblem glinted in the fading sunlight, crisp and clean cuts that no man-made machine could come close to replicating, comprising the red hourglass figure. And straddling the hourglass figure, rested a depiction of Wanda’s crown composed of the same garnet, composed by the same hands. But at the angle she held the ring box, the crown appeared flat, dull, dim in the absence of the light that the hourglass embodied.
A part of her wanted to laugh at the poeticism of it.
Another part of her wanted to cry at the poeticism of it.
And another, third part of her wanted to do nothing at the poeticism of it.
She decided to follow that latter part of herself, wishing not to risk opening a Pandora’s box that none of the other Avengers could contain.
Wanda swallowed. Her shoes dug into the soft earth beneath her feet, marring the sneakers’ white sidewalls with brown dirt.
The knee of her jeans followed suit as she bent down to kneel, rough blue denim staining brown as it met the earth. Her hands trembled as she turned the ring box over in her hands, presenting it and its contents to the stone she knelt to.
‘I made this for you,’ she wanted to say. ‘I made this just for you, just for us,’ she wanted to say. ‘I love you,’ she wanted to say.
But what she truly wanted to say was, ‘I’m sorry.’ But what she truly wanted to say was, ‘I should’ve done better.’ But what she truly wanted to say was, ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘Will you marry me,’ she wanted to ask. ‘Will you marry me and make me the happiest woman on the planet,’ she wanted to ask. ‘Will you marry me and stay together and grow old together and die together,’ she wanted to ask.
But what she truly wanted to ask was, ‘Why did you leave me?’ But what she truly wanted to ask was, ‘How do I make it up to you?’ But what she truly wanted to ask was, ‘How much do you hate me? Can I even make it up to you?’
Her ring finger twitched, weighed down by the twin to the ring in the box. Her lump in her throat twitched, weighed down by all the things she wanted to say and truly say all the things she wanted to ask and truly ask. Her mouth twitched, weighed down by her guilt and self-loathing as she failed to push past that weight.
Another failure to add to the list.
And so, she remained kneeling in front of the stone, rough blue denim staining brown as it met the earth. Her hands trembled as she turned the ring box over in her hands, presenting it and its contents to the stone she knelt to once more.
Why couldn't she grieve?
Wanda swallowed. Her shoes dug into the soft earth beneath her feet, marring the sneakers’ white sidewalls with brown dirt.
Why couldn’t she grieve?
Somewhere above her head, the damn bird happily fucking chirped at its young and—
Why couldn’t she grieve?
Why couldn’t she say all the things she wanted to say? Why couldn’t she ask all the things she wanted to ask? Why couldn’t she… do anything?
Because she knew, deep down, that she would never get a response to any and all of the things she wanted to say. Because she knew, deep down, that she would never get an answer to any and all of the things she wanted to ask. Because she knew, deep down, that there was nothing left to be done.
It was a strange place, she decided. Mount Vernon, Ohio was a strange place. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Too quiet compared to the city, too quiet compared to the Tower, too quiet compared to the Compound, too quiet compared to her home back in Novi Grad, Sokovia.
No.
There was no home left for her in Novi Grad, Sokovia. There was no home left for her in Novi Grad, Sokovia, after Ultron had leveled the city and left the rest of the country to be cannibalized by its neighbors. There was no home left for her in Novi Grad, Sokovia, after Ultron had murdered her brother and countless others.
So where was her home?
The Compound?
The Tower?
New York City?
The United States of America?
No.
Her home was a pair of green eyes that lit up in recognition nearly as bright as hers every time they met. Her home was a gentle colorful laugh, a real, genuine laugh tinged with hints of a suppressed Russian accent. Her home was a smile, a whiff of lavender shampoo, a warm embrace with embers that could light her soul on fire.
Her home was a trio of teddy bears that stared up at her in… anticipation? Longing? Resentment? Her home was a harsh gray stone, tinged with hints of moss that was beginning to suppress the dark border. Her home was stoic, a whiff of earth, a cold stone with tendrils that could freeze her soul in place.
Her home was everywhere and nowhere. Her home was right here, in front of her.
Her home was gone. Her home was here.
Her home was. Her home is.
Wanda again let herself go here and now. She let herself go, kneeling in front of ‘Her’ grave in the middle of a cemetery in Mount Vernon, Ohio. She let herself go, tears falling from her eyes and spilling down her cheeks like ‘She’ had fallen on Vormir and spilled ‘Her’ blood across the bottom of the cliff.
Except, one fall was heroic, a self-sacrificial act befitting the winner, the hero, that the Black Widow was, while the other was pathetic, a self-pitying act befitting the loser, the failure, that the Scarlet Witch was.
She let herself drop her second knee to the ground, her second patch of rough blue denim staining brown as it met the earth. She let herself slowly, awkwardly, clumsily advance upon the stone with her outstretched hands still presenting the ring to an audience of none. She let herself read the letters—not the words, the letters, since the letters couldn’t hurt her as the words could.
Leaves rustled and flew about as a gust of wind blew throughout the cemetery, several more of the warped brown pieces of foliage making a home in her hair.
A home.
She once wanted to build a home. She once wanted to build a home, from the ground up, in her own vision, though not just hers. She once wanted to build a home, from the ground up, with—
With ‘Her’.
Her home had taken on several forms over the years, both the years she’d missed and the years she hadn’t.
After Ultron, after she had found—
found ‘Her’—
that home would’ve looked like the suburban dream. That home would’ve looked like a humble two-story house that sat amidst a sea of identical copies decorating the street in either direction as far as the eye could see. That home would’ve looked like a humble, two-bedroom house in case they had ever considered expanding their home, introducing another member, perhaps two, to their family.
After the Civil War, after she had lost—
lost ‘Her’—
and found—
found ‘Her’ all over again—
that home would’ve looked like the nomadic dream. That home would’ve looked like a humble, two-room hole-in-the-wall apartment that smelled of cheap cigarettes no matter how much air freshener they used. That home would’ve looked like a—
She didn’t care what it looked like. She didn’t care how many stories it had. She didn’t care how many rooms it had. She didn’t care how many cars she could park in front without getting a ticket or blocking one of the neighbors in. All she cared about was—
Her true home.
At some point, night had fallen. At some point, night had fallen to leave her and her stone, her home, in darkness.
Her and her true home, in darkness.
Her and her true home that was gone forever, in darkness.
Forever.
Forever was a strange concept.
Forever was an easy word to use, unaware of its true connotations. Forever was an easy word to throw around, unaware of its true weight. Forever was an easy word to claim, unaware of its true demands.
Forever was a given. Forever was a given until life decided forever was over. Forever was a given until death, locked in eternal tango with life, took what life had given and gave what it had taken back to the universe.
She could blink. She could take a breath. She could tear up. She could cry. She could outline the text engraved carved into the stone’s face. She could spell it out with her eyes, mapping the As, Ns, Os, Fs, and other letters sandwiched in between with her gaze.
But she couldn’t turn it into a word. She couldn’t take those letters, angular and circular all the same, and connect them. She couldn’t connect them to spell out the name she simultaneously wanted to scream over and over and over again and never wanted to whisper once more.
But she could turn the other letters into words. She could turn the other, smaller letters into words. She could turn the other, smaller letters at the base of the stone into words.
‘Daughter.’
‘дочь.’
‘Sister.’
‘сестра.’
‘Avenger.’
‘мститель.’
All those words were true. ‘She’ had been a daughter. ‘She’ had been a sister. ‘She’ had been an Avenger.
So why did she want to destroy the stone? Why did she want to unleash the Chaos magic bubbling beneath her skin? Why did she want to tear the stone apart and rebuild it, from the ground up, in her own vision?
Because it would’ve been selfish. Because it would’ve been selfish for her to exert her own, selfish desires upon the world, upon her home. Because it would’ve been selfish for her to exert her own, selfish visions upon her world, upon her home.
But maybe it wouldn’t have been selfish. Maybe her desires weren’t so selfish. Maybe her visions weren’t so selfish. After all, the sum of her desires and her visions only amounted to one, additional word that belonged on the stone.
‘Wife.’
‘жена.’
But whether it would’ve been selfish or not, whether it would’ve been selfish to exert her desires or not, whether it would’ve been selfish to exert her visions or not, she could not find the will to make a decision.
So, she stared.
And the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—stared right back.
She stared at the tombstone’s STONE’S—just a stone, a stone—thick, dark border, tracing it with her eyes.
And the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—stared right back.
She stared at the tombstone’s STONE’S—just a stone, a stone—center, her gaze tracing both the angular lines and circular border of the custom etching displayed front and center amidst the gray canvas.
And the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—stared right back.
She stared at the tombstone’s STONE’S—just a stone, a stone—base, where an assorted collection of flowers, candles, notes, and stuffed animals decorated the grass immediately surrounding the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone.
And the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—along with ‘Her’ three favorite teddy bears, stared back.
The last remnants of will vanished from within her. She could never destroy the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone. She could never unleash the Chaos magic bubbling beneath her skin. She could never tear the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—apart and rebuild it, from the ground up, in her own vision.
Because it was her home. Her true home. Her only home.
Because it was ‘Her’ home, too, she realized. ‘Her’ true home, too, she realized. ‘Her’ only home, too, she realized.
Her home. ‘Her’ home.
Their home. Their true home. Their only home.
Leaves rustled and flew about as a gust of wind blew throughout the cemetery, several of the warped brown pieces of foliage making a home in her—no, on her, on her shoulders—while one particularly stubborn leaf settled atop the ring box’s contents.
And just as she moved to remove the leaf, a stray breeze removed it for her.
She blinked.
A stray breeze removed it for her, carrying it off ‘Her’ ring, leaf resisting as if hesitating to part. A stray breeze removed it for her, brushing it past her ring, leaf resisting as if hesitating to part. A stray breeze removed it for her, brushing it past her hand, her arm, her shoulder, leaf resisting as if hesitating to part.
She blinked.
And all too soon, a stray breeze removed it for her, sweeping it away out of her field of vision.
She blinked.
She had come to scream, to cry, to grieve to, for, and with the one woman who had truly understood her. But an eternity had passed since those twenty minutes, and she had no voice, yet wanted to scream. She had no voice, yet wanted to cry. She had no voice, yet wanted to grieve.
She blinked.
Maybe she was grieving. Maybe this was how she grieved.
She blinked.
Maybe she was grieving her loss, in her own way. Maybe this was how she grieved her loss, in her own way.
She blinked.
Maybe she was grieving her loss of ‘Her,’ in her own way, as pathetic as her own way may have been. Maybe this was how she grieved her loss of ‘Her,’ in her own way, as pathetic as her own way may have been.
She broke.
Wanda again let herself go here and now. She let herself go, kneeling in front of ‘Her’ grave in the middle of a cemetery in Mount Vernon, Ohio. She let herself go, sobs rising from her throat and spilling out her lips like ‘She’ had risen on Vormir, ‘Her’ soul ascending for a Soul, and spilled ‘Her’ blood across the bottom of the cliff.
She broke.
She let herself close the ring box, the quiet SNAP of the box jolting her as it echoed throughout the cemetery. She let herself close the ring box, the quiet SNAP of a twig beneath her knee jolting her as it echoed throughout the cemetery. She let herself close the ring box, the quiet SNAP of the mark of the end of this chapter of her life, ‘Her’ life, their life, together, jolting her as it echoed throughout the cemetery.
She broke.
She broke down, down, down in Mount Vernon, Ohio, like ‘She’ had broken after falling down, down, down Vormir. She devolved down, down, down into sobs, like ‘She’ had devolved down, down, down into a husk of ‘Herself’. She sunk down, down, down toward the ground, like ‘She’ had sunk down, down, down toward the ground.
Except, one break, one devolution, one sinking, was heroic, a self-sacrificial act befitting the winner, the hero, that the Black Widow was, while the other break, other devolution, other sinking, was pathetic, a self-pitying act befitting the loser, the failure, that the Scarlet Witch was.
She planted her ring box down upon the earth with its contents still facing her stone, her home. She planted her gaze down upon the earth leading up to the assorted collection of flowers, candles, notes, and stuffed animals that decorated the grass immediately surrounding the base of her stone, her home. She planted her hands down upon the top of the cold tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—
No.
Not “just a stone”. Not “a stone”.
Her stone. ‘Her’ stone.
Their stone. Their home.
Their stone. Their true home.
Their stone. Their only home.
And all too suddenly, the tombstone STONE—just a stone, a stone—NO, her stone—‘Her’ stone—their stone—their home—their stone—their true home— heir stone—their only home—
The tombstone burned to her touch. The tombstone burned to her touch, scalding her fingertips. The tombstone burned to her touch, scalding her fingertips like her Chaos magic had scalded them when blowing a hole in Vision’s skull, scalded them when holding back Thanos and four Infinity Stones, scalded them when not holding back against Thanos and going for the kill.
She retracted her fingers, but it was too late. She retracted her fingers, but it was too late because the burn had seared in. She retracted her fingers, but it was too late because the burn had seared in like her Chaos magic had seared them when not holding back against Thanos and going for the kill.
The kill she had failed to achieve.
Failed to achieve.
Failed.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.
She trembled as she lost her support. She trembled as she lost her support in the form of ‘Her’ tombstone, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She trembled as she lost her support in the form of her home, her head hanging limp with her chin at her chest.
Wanda again let herself go here and now. She let herself go, kneeling in front of ‘Her’ grave in the middle of a cemetery in Mount Vernon, Ohio. She let herself go, tears falling from her eyes and—
and—
and a sob, ugly and guttural, spilling from her lips for the first time that night, like ‘She’ had fallen on Vormir and spilled ‘Her’ blood across the bottom of the cliff for the last time ‘Her’ night.
Her lump in her throat twitched, once weighed down by all the things she wanted to say and truly say all the things she wanted to ask and truly ask, before seemingly dissipating into nothing to meet ‘Her’ soul, wherever it may have gone—where it HAD gone. Had gone. The phantom of her lump in her throat twitched, displaced by the first sound of her grief she had been able to muster since—
since—
since the funeral.
She trembled as she lost her balance. She trembled as she lost her balance, hands instinctively bracing against the earth. She trembled as she lost her balance, hands instinctively bracing against the earth, scraping and brushing against the ground and its foliage.
She panted as she lost her balance. She panted as she lost her balance, hands instinctively reaching for ‘Her’. She panted as she lost her balance, hands instinctively reaching for ‘Her’ cheek, ‘Her’ hair, ‘Her’ scars.
But they weren’t there. ‘Her’ cheek wasn’t there. ‘Her’ hair wasn’t there. ‘Her’ scars weren’t there.
And they would never be there. Ever. ‘Her’ cheek would never be there. Ever. ‘Her’ hair would never be there. Ever. ‘Her’ scars would never be there. Ever.
Ever.
Ever, ever, ever.
Wanda’s free hands twitched as Chaos magic threatened to spill out and destroy, consume, erase her surroundings, while her occupied hands twitched as she ran her fingers over the earth’s coarse exterior.
Wanda’s free hands balled into fists as she contained her Chaos magic, holding herself back from destroying, consuming, erasing her surroundings, while her occupied hands balled into fists around the ring box after their deft fingers flipped the box closed and slipped it inside her pocket.
Wanda again let herself go here and now. She let herself go, kneeling in front of ‘Her’ grave in the middle of a cemetery in Mount Vernon, Ohio. She let herself go, tears falling from her eyes and another sob, also ugly and guttural, also spilling from her lips for the second time that night, also like ‘She’ had fallen on Vormir and spilled ‘Her’ blood across the bottom of the cliff for the last time ‘Her’ night.
She let herself go, tears falling from her eyes and another sob, also ugly and guttural, also spilling from her lips for the third time that night.
She let herself go. She let herself go. She let herself go.
‘She’ had also let herself go. ‘She’ had also let herself go over that cliff. ‘She’ had also let herself go over that cliff, to bring back the half of humanity that hadn’t asked to go over.
She sobbed. She sobbed. She sobbed.
But ‘She’ hadn’t sobbed. But ‘She’ hadn’t sobbed, as per Clint’s words. But ‘She’ hadn’t sobbed, as per Clint’s words, cracked and broken and entombed in his grief.
And if ‘She’ hadn’t sobbed even while facing her death, then she had no right to sob even while facing ‘Her’ death.
So, she screamed.
Wanda’s free hands twitched as Chaos magic spilled out to destroy, consume, erase her surroundings, while her occupied hands twitched as she ran her fingers over the air’s coarse nothingness.
So, she screamed.
Wanda’s free hands balled into fists as she bolstered her Chaos magic, holding herself back from destroying, consuming, erasing her surroundings, while her occupied hands unballed at her sides after their deft fingers flipped the ring box closed and slipped it inside her pocket.
So, she screamed.
Her Chaos magic screamed as it crescendoed within her palms. Her Chaos magic screamed as it crescendoed within her eyes, setting them ablaze with red. Her Chaos magic screamed as it crescendoed within her, propelling her upward to her feet, propelling her upward to hover above the ground, propelling her upward to the sky as she blasted off with a sonic boom that left nothing but an earth-shattering rumble in its wake.
Unbeknownst to her, ‘Her’ favorite teddy bears watched her depart her tombstone, ‘Her’ tombstone, her home, ‘Her’ home, their home for the first,
and last,
time.
It was a strange place. Mount Vernon, Ohio was a strange place. It was quiet.
Too quiet.