Bereaved lovers and children haunt the churchyard, the late summer evening casting a warm and gentle haze across old burials. Candlelight cuts through the low mist, bathing the graves in goldenness - every name, every date of birth and death raised in the solstice light. It is nights like this when Janya drifts among the headstones, murmuring their names aloud, softly touching some. It is not sentimental, just how things are. She keeps the forgotten awake in their flowerbeds, alive in her forest mind.