At the turn of the twentieth century, a man was born and then died one day, cut down like the trees which he felled for their wood. No one came to shed tears on the hasty grave under a pine tree. A century later, his name had been lost on the world, existing in a single old newspaper article and whatever fleeting impression it made. This was the second death of John Parrish, aged twenty-one.
Surrounded by pristine rivers, majestic alpine peaks, and lush evergreen forests, the town of Lincoln, New Hampshire, once flourished with sawmills and logging camps. Now, it served more as a gateway community for various tourist attractions, like Franconia Notch State Park and the scenic Kancamagus Highway. Even at a distance, the White Mountains displayed a hazy camouflage of autumn color, glowing with electric orange and soft red leaves.
October brought hordes of leaf peepers to the Granite State's seasonal show, and even more shoppers arrived at the Kancamagus Country Store, where a tourist had stopped to rest. Innumerable faces passed by in the crowd, but one stood out among them: a golden-haired youth who loitered nearby without ever buying anything! All he did was stand in the doorway and then flit off whenever someone went through.
Finally, on the way out, that same stranger was found standing under a tree in the back lot, with a look of consternation writ large upon those delicate features. His arms were crossed over a white flannel shirt which looked a few sizes too big for him, and he let out a heavy sigh.
"It feels nice not to be ignored for once," the man said at length, as if rambling to himself. "You can see me, right? Or am I just going insane? I've been alone for so long that I might lose my mind one of these days."