The little drummer girl walked barefoot through the woods, her hair fluttering in the breeze like the flag of a forgotten kingdom. She had walked these lands since the civil war. She would walk them till the next. A trail of blood, a trail of bones. This country of ours is an endless grave. Only the beat of her drum keeps the dead asleep.
“She’s definitely a ghost,” Ethel said, as she peered out from behind the tree to a get a better look.
“She’s not a ghost,” said Claire. “She’s a musician.”
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