'I used to think the dead travelled away, out to some great distance, as they decayed, over weeks, or months, or years. I didn't believe in the stories they told at school, stories of heaven, little fables of the afterlife; I thought the dead went back to nothing, breaking down slowly, like fallen leaves, or the scatter of bones you find out in the marshland, the bones of a dog or a bird, whitening and breaking down in the sun, everything going to powder, then scattering on the wind.'
The Devil's Footprints
(Page 106)
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