The story didn't start in 1867, or even 1968. It started on a regular afternoon when Candice turned her phone around to show off a photograph she’d taken at the cemetery.
In the frame, a roadrunner sat perched on the crest of a granite headstone. It was a striking image, the kind of quiet, accidental poetry that makes you pause. Beneath the bird's feet, the name John Mason was etched into the rock. I was given a copy of his obituary from the
Atoka County Times, and just like that, the rabbit hole opened up.
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