A Cinderella Story

Grey clouds pooled in the early morning sky, and a thick obscure mist hung over the ground like a silvery cloak. The sun had just started to appear over the mountains in the distance, giving the morning dew a faint twinkle. I walked swiftly along the extensive country dirt road to the graveyard, it had felt like months since I had been to mother’s grave, but it had only been a week. In all truth Step-Mother had just kept me so busy, I hadn’t found the time to make the 16 mile trek round trip to the monastery and the graveyard.

I set out I usually did, at 5:00 o’clock in the morning with a light breakfast packed in a burlap sack, which I now carried in my left hand. However, every time I leave, I always make sure I grab an arrangement of beautiful flowers form the chateau garden. Then, before I leave, I place the bouquet with care at the base of the tombstone. With the flowers in a basket cradled in my right arm, I am ready to set out.

It was not uncommon to meet other travelers along the road to the monastery. I often saw the village baker in his cart coming back from his delivery’s, or perhaps a traveling pilgrim. However, with the fog, the road seemed to be strangely quiet and abandoned. Not that I’m complaining, on the contrary, everything was peaceful and calm. The silence seemed almost friendly, so I kept going until I reached the foot of the mountain where the path and stairs to the monastery began.

The climb was strenuous, and my feet often had bunions afterwards, but the pain was worth it. My mother had died when I was young, and I can barely remember her. At least when I am at her grave, I can feel close to her, if only for an hour.

The climb was finally over, and I peered over the last step, I was at the cemetery at last. “Finally,” I murmured. I walked through the misty yard of towering pillars to mark each grave. I did not feel safe this time, as if I was not alone. Everything was silent, usually I heard at least the sound of birds in the morning, but not today.

Finally I reached mother’s grave. it was a stately marble pillar, but there was someone else there! An old woman, hunched over at the tombstone next to it. Her black shawl covered her face for the moment, but as she slowly turned, it revealed a soft, kind face, as if aged, but timeless.

“Hello,” she said softly, “who are you?”

“Hello,” I responded carefully, not knowing what would become of this, “my name is Daniella, but most people just call me Ella.”

“Well,” said the old woman, “my name is Agatha, nice to meet you.” She held out an aged hand. I took it in mine, and shook gently.