He looked over the brook as he had done every week of his life. Anyone else would look to the nearby field and see nothing. But he still saw the memories of his old home. He looked to what appeared to be nothing more than a dipalidated old scout
(more) hut, but to him, it was the homely little abode where the Johannes family lived, and he remembered the days of his childhood always pulling little pranks on Mr. Johannes- of course, the jolly old man would always get 'em back in some way. He turned his head and saw the old marketplace with little stalls, just like the big fairs in the cities, where people came from farming communities all over to have some fun and turn a little profit. Another turn of his head revealed the old recruitment depot, as memories of the old war filled his head, carrying with it all the propaganda posters and all the boys signing up to try and be like the manly-men they thought the GIs were. He could even hear the hustle and bustle of the old small-community life sometimes, but to an outside observer, it was just an old man staring at an old field from across a river.
His grandson stumbled through the small pass back into town. He opened his mouth and started, "Hey, grandpa, dinner's ready." But the old man still looked on, in an everlasting trance. Eventually, in his relaxation, his breathing had permenantly come to a stop. For one last time, that old man was in that place.(less)
