The old cemetery guard disliked days when snow kept falling—not only because the cold weather made his already overburdened joints ache, but also because such snowy days always reminded him of events long past.
Some not-so-pleasant events.
Like the rebellion fifty years ago, the frost disaster thirty years ago, the great collapse in the southern district seventeen years ago… Such heavy snow never brought any good.
The old man rubbed his hands together and glanced back at the cemetery, now also covered in snow.
The cemetery path was blurred by snow, with only footprints outlining the route to the morgue and the guard's hut. The gas lamps were extinguished, and the dark poles stood in the snow like dead tree trunks, looking rather lonely.