I'm an old man nowadays, and the events described within this text took place a long time ago.

Still, I haven't been able to move forward.

Not really.

Fragmented memories pop up from time to time, images of that awful night sporadically haunting me. Seeing as I'm not long for

this earth now, the grim reaper impatiently waiting, I figured putting it all into writing

would make my last couple of months more comfortable in some way. Growing up, he had a house like any other.

It was red, the pigment of the paint originating from the iron mines further up north.

The corners of the casing of the windows were white.

A big plot of land surrounded our home, and it included a barn constructed in the same traditional

style as the main residence. Miles of pine bordered the property to the north, and fields

of wheat and ride to the east. A small gravel path, no wide earth than an L, connected us to the

outside world.

If you haven't figured it out yet, we led a quaint and isolated life.

But it was good.

It was a good life.

I apologise.

I'm forgetting myself. It becomes less rare with age. I suppose you're

wondering what I mean when I say, we. A family of four plus change. That's who we were.

My younger sister, Ingrid, was a gifted artist. She would start a creative

journey by making dolls at a straw and drawing on the walls, much to the dismay of our parents.

In many ways, her spirit was unbound by the realities of life, which I've always admired.

My father was your typical farmer, seemingly always armed with a sickle.

...