She couldn’t recall if that was the name of the individual niches that held the urns with the cremains, or if it could be applied to the wall of niches as a whole. The edges blackened by centuries of dust rubbed from mourners’ clothing. In the center was a sandstone bench, incongruously modern-looking, pale and finely veined. Inside, the caskets resided in long vaults to the left, behind large engraved brass plates identifying each resident. Enough light spilled out to illuminate her short journey up the three stone steps to the entrance. This had once been her ancestors’ land, the mausoleum still her family’s place of interment. She barely glanced at the bronze plaque on a sandstone pedestal: “State register of Historic Buildings. After using her fob to lock the car, she shook her head as if at her own folly, car thieves being unlikely to hide out in a cemetery before dawn. She wasn’t tall, but she was determinedly straight-backed. The sedan halted on a parking apron in front of the mausoleum building.
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