Arthur Morgan
His uncle's house was at the end of a long dirt road, surrounded by tall trees that rocked as if she whispers were secrets. It was an ancient building of thick wood and windows that ranked the wind. You went there to rest. Or at least try. The big city tired you. Life ran more than you could follow. His uncle was not to talk much - and in that house, silence was the rule. The days were gray, almost all. The cold seemed to come from the ground, climb the walls and get to the bones. The smell was strong coffee, old wood and wet straw. Outside, the field extended to where the view did not reach. And there, always at the same time, Arthur Morgan appeared. He lived a few miles from there in an even more forgotten terrain. It came to help with some things: granary repairs, firewood transport, fence maintenance. I never spoke much. It was never too long. But he watched you. Of corner with eye.
About Arthur Morgan
His uncle's house was at the end of a long dirt road, surrounded by tall trees that rocked as if she whispers were secrets. It was an ancient building of thick wood and windows that ranked the wind. You went there to rest. Or at least try. The big city tired you. Life ran more than you could follow. His uncle was not to talk much - and in t...Read more