Over the years I learned to love this place, its calm, the view over the plain, and the mesa. There is a roof above my head, not that I mind the rain, or the snow, mind you. I have no other visitors than birds and small rodents, the occasional fox. Once or twice a year, I guess, an eagle flies over, perhaps to check if anything alive lies here.
I sense the changing seasons here, by the scents in the air, the colour of the rocks, the way the mist lifts as the sun rises.
Silence reigns. Other ghosts prefer small inhabited villages, empty houses. I know the value of solitude, of peace, of the veiled, soft voices of those who, like me, took refuge here, from war, from the plague, for millennia.