[ExGeeEye]

Wandering through a ghost town, I came across a dilapidated relic of a building. It had stood vacant for over two years, and nearly so for several more. Its foundations seemed solid, the walls unholed, the windows intact; there was even a flicker in one of the lamps.

The tables and chairs were arranged in a familiar way. A few scattered personal items-- a pen, a coffee mug from an insurance agency, a towel embroidered with a small "42"-- told me that the ones who had been here might return.

But the dust lay heavily everywhere.

A chalked message on the wall read "We'll be back". This cheered me, until I realized....

...it was in my own hand.

Be well, Hobbit Holers, wherever you are.

[ExGeeEye]

I passed through the round door again. It creaked, but I was prepared; a squirt of WD-40, and all was well.

I saw that a .300 WinMag shell casing had rolled into a corner. I picked it up and set it on the hall table, in case the owner showed up.

Some accumulated junk mail to take care of... horse show brochures, Marine recruitment materials, and what’s this? Be a surrogate mother?? Fie. Into the recycling bin.

I lit a candle for Professor Tolkien’s 128th birthday. A few moments in thought over the pleasures of days past, and I went back out the door, dropping the key in its accustomed plant pot.

Remember. Rejoin, even.