Aztec Century

Preface

In my dreams, I dream of Aztecs…

…and wake to find myself here, alone with my ruined sister, lost not only to history but to memory itself.

We have an old stone farmhouse, my sister and I, secluded in the same Welsh valley where our story truly began – and yet it is not the same valley, at least not to me. We live quietly, seeing only the local man who brings our provisions from the town. He is cheerful but inquisitive, and I mistrust him greatly. No one else disturbs our solitude. Essentially I am alone, and when my sister’s needs have been attended to each day, I spend hours at the study window, staring down the valley.

Dreaming.

Last week I had notebooks and pens delivered with our groceries. Today, another day of rain like so many here, I intend to begin writing our story. To what purpose I’m not sure. For others to read so that they can marvel or scorn? To record history, exorcize demons, cool the fires of memory? I can’t honestly say it’s for any of these reasons but rather to fill up the empty hours and so give myself purpose and meaning.