His mare died as soon as they arrived at the garden’s edge. For three months she had dutifully pulled him and the small wooden caravan of his belongings through the desert. The journey had consisted of nothing but featureless grey dust and rock under a iron sky. All the while heading towards the black speck on the horizon that was the mansion.
  When the horse collapsed into the earth with a final whine, W. didn’t know what else to do but huddle his face into his grey woolen jacket and stay silent a minute, letting the howling wind speak for him. Then he stepped over her and reached into the toppled caravan to retrieve a wooden trunk and the letter of summons, which he placed gently in his breast pocket. Just as he turned to enter the garden a small white speck caught his eye.
  It stuck out of the dirt near where the mare’s head lay. Her glazed eye observing, W. crouched down and brushed the white object out. He lifted up a horse's skull. It was old, picked clean by whatever lived in the barren soil.
  Placing the skull down and feeling the winds chill start to bite. W curled his collar up and leaving the caravan and horse behind him started up the garden path. Trying to think nothing of what he’d seen.