The long row of shaded headstones mimicked an early morning muster of soldiers cued up for morning mess. The cemetery, an odd collection of spires, rounded caps and rectangulars of granite and stone befriended the once open field of maples ashes and elms. What trees not cleared to make way for the next of kin obviously were rooted in next of kin anyway. One might even with a bit of imagination hear the headstones chattering roll calls of dates time and specific calamites that had befallen those therein once the afternoon sun had warmed the stones up a bit. Except maybe about the stone of Sarah Floyd; long gone but not interned. As the date of birth demarcated; Sarah’s birth was noted as November twenty, eighteen sixty. Death however never noted. Her stone erected beside what appears to be that of her late husband who is posthumously professed as, “loving father and husband, sadly missed and not forgotten.” To a modern-day Sherlock then surely a mystery is a foot? Records in the dusty basement of a local courthouse expound the fact Sarah left this earthly community on the evening of September sixth as a wave of cholera decimated the town.  Perhaps her remains had been dispensed to a mass grave neither marked nor noted? The kind often used to keep the diseased from infecting those still alive? Or maybe her final resting place was many miles away in a spot perchance she had chosen? If the stones indeed could talk would they tell a tale of an abused wife who did indeed find love after the tyrant and perpetrator of her abuse had passed? Eventually finding her resting peace by the side of a man never aware of Mr. Floyd? Indeed, if the stones could talk or just whisper.