We found a firepit, with its circle of charred and broken rocks. A wooden chair for two sat in front of it, surrounded by shards of broken beer bottles. In our mindless state, we began to take slats off of the chair and threw them into the lake.
A few feet off was a damp t-shirt, folded neatly on the ground. Nearby, on a hollow stump, were a dozen wilting roses, out of place with their delicately pale pink petals.
There has to be a story here. I wish I knew what it was.
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