When Caroline Walter of Freiburg, Germany died at the age of 16, her sister, ,Selma, had a sculptor cast a life size sculpture for the gravestone - Every morning since Caroline’s funeral, a fresh flower was found tucked in the crook of the arm, and still is to this day - Nobody knows who leaves it - Every single morning! - Caroline died in 1867 - For 146 years, someone has been leaving flowers…
Caroline totes had a vampire lover.
This is by far, my favorite theory.
I wrote a thing …
The white petals were softer than anything she’d ever touched, save her skin. Her skin. Skin that put the white of the flowers to shame, made the petals seem coarse like sand from the nearby beach, and made all nature seem dull and lifeless in comparison. Her skin had glowed with life, infused the world with color as she had never seen before.
She remembered the stolen touches of her mortal youth: a finger to the lips to quiet while they sneaked through the kitchen; a lingering hand on a bare shoulder while they played in the creek by her uncle’s cabin; holding hands as they walked through the quiet village square. She had never revealed her feelings, but she remembered the warmth, the glow. Could she have cried, had her tears not dried up forever, she would have wept. The memory of great, wracking sobs were all she had now. That and everlasting beauty. Her skin was darker than her friend’s, and it always would be.
Age will never touch you, Caroline, she thought. She sighed and lightly traced the stone. Tiny fingertip led to tiny curve of tiny finger. You were always so small, so delicate. It’s a wonder the fever did not take you quicker.
“She’s a fighter,” the woman whispered fiercely. “She will not be taken from us so easily.” She wrung her hands, squeezing the knuckles white. Hot tears clung to her crow’s feet.
The balding man’s shoulders hunched with resignation. Knobby fingers tightened and loosened around the handles of his bag periodically as he explained, once more, that there was nothing more he could do; that she was fighting and that was what was most important; that there were dozens of other children in the town that needed tending to; that it was all in God’s hands now.
She had been waiting outside her window, glaring at the “doctor.” He is supposed to be educated, the words burned in her mind. He is supposed to have cures. He is supposed to know all the right herbs, have all the right poultices and syrups ready. Science is supposed to save her.
She had crept through the window every night during her illness. She had whispered to her, stories of their adventures, of the ill girl’s bravery against foes like the angry chipmunk at the old oak, the starved dog in the woods, the feral cats of the town crone. She recounted tale after tale as she brushed sweat-soaked hair from her brow. She had placed her cool hands on her forehead and been simultaneously worried and relieved by the contented sigh issued each time. The fever would not relinquish its hold, and neither will I. She leaned down to take her thin wrist in her mouth, to bring her to the other side of life, when the door opened with such force it slammed into the wall.
“You!” the woman cried. The flame of her candle had seemed weak compared to the hateful light in her eyes. She pointed a bony finger at the young woman kneeling beside her daughter. “I knew there was a reason! I knew you would not catch ill! The devil cannot catch his own disease!” she had screamed. “Get out! Get out!”
The young woman scrambled out the way she came, not bothering to close the window after her. She did not look back.
If only I had known. If only I had said goodbye.
Mother and child walked solemnly, quietly from gravestone to gravestone.
“This was your great uncle Henry. He fought in the war.” The child nodded seriously. “And that is your cousin Reynold. He had a terrible accident when he was 12.” The child bobbed her head, curls bouncing. Grave after grave, story after story, they went, pausing to pay respect to each fallen family member. Finally they came to the largest marker in the cemetery.
A young woman, cast in stunning white marble, laid on a bed of dark granite. Delicately curled hair haloed her angelic face. One hand rested softly on her stomach; the other reached toward the two, as if welcoming them to her final resting place.
“Who’s that, mama?” “That was your great, great aunt, darling.” “How did she die?” “She caught tuberculosis when she was 16, and lingered for two weeks. Grandma Josephine says she fought very hard, but was just too weak.” “Oh.” The two moved to the next grave, and the next, reached the end of the row, and turned to leave. Halfway to the gate, the child turned to look again at the beautiful statue. A figure had appeared beside the marble girl.
“Mama, who is that?”
“Who – where, darling?”
“The lady by – oh.” The figure had disappeared. Fresh flowers anointed the grave.
btvs appreciation week • day one - favourite character: buffy summers
↪ "The hardest thing in this world is to live in it."
This is the funniest thing to ever happen to Canada