Prologue

In the small town of Jopre, on an island off the Maine mainland, there are many things. There is a grocery store. There is a laundrymat, a doctor’s office, a hospital, and many more houses. There is a harbor, and docks where clams, oysters, and fish are harvested everyday and brought ashore. But there is also a graveyard.

And it is to this graveyard we will go first. This is a very old graveyard. Most of the graves are unkempt. The stones near the back are crumbling. They are so choked up with weeds that the inscriptions upon them are all but unreadable.

In the very back, however, one grave is different. No weeds grow near it, nor does posion ivy wind up the tree that stands behind the stone. The stone is polished until a reflection can be seen on it. Red roses lay on top of it, and never seem to wilt, for they are replaced nearly every week.

Who replaces them, you ask? No one knows. Who does this grave belong to? That I can answer. Her name was Rosa Bennet. She lived in Jopre all of her life, before finally dying.

Now, sit down by a cozy fire, and I shall tell you her story. . .