Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day One Hundred Eighteen

Abandoned houses dot the plains of the Lost Quarter, remnants of lives left behind. Not all of Those Who Came, after Those Who Left were sent into exile, stayed. When the depression came and the lands blew, setting up clouds of dust so thick there was darkness at noon, some were sent to other parts of the dominions to start anew. Many others left of their own accord. Others gave up along the way, abandoning their lives for what they hoped would be better ones outside the Quarter.

They left behind the houses they built, and the yards they carved out of the sea of prairie grass. Driving along empty roads, surrounded by rolling hills and pasture, you will see them. A house alongside the road, surrounded by a wall of trees. From a distance it will seem like any other house, but once you get closer you can see the paint has faded and gone, the wood bare to the elements. The windows are broken and the roof is sagging. The ground around the trees, once kept with meticulous care, is overgrown with weeds and grass, and even new saplings finding their way into the world.

The Quarter is haunted with these places, left to fall into disrepair, for the wind and elements to wear away all traces. Seeing them has always filled me with a strange longing to know what became of those who once inhabited these places. All that is left are a few fragments of how they once lived, only those that they could leave behind. Soon enough the wind will have them.

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