** This is a re-write of my first attempt at writing a story that has been brewing in my head. There is another revision, and I am thinking about revising things once again, but for what’s its worth this is my second attempt to get this story off the ground.

Benjamin Bradley wanted to do only one thing as he stood before the simple grave marker that bore his own name: he wanted to bend down and remove the grass and dirt from the cold marble. But even after looking around for any person who might notice an elderly man bending over and clearing off the grave stone of someone who left the small town of New Yorkshire in far worse shape then how he found it, he thought better of it. The truth is that he should have never come back. A voice told him as much when he first thought about coming back here after so many years, but he told himself that he was just being foolish and paranoid. Now he knew he was being anything but. He was lucky to leave the town alive before; he probably wouldn’t be so lucky this time around.

What would it matter now, he was here, best to do what it was he came here to do, which was… Benjamin didn’t know. Maybe he came here to do nothing at all. The thought never really crossed his mind of why he was driving half way across the country to visit a town that nearly killed him two decades before; he just got in his car and went.

And now here he was, looking down at the gravesite were many believed he was buried, where many believed his body decayed away, destined to eventually crumble into nothing but dust. Although he knew better, as did many of the people he was trying to fool, he still managed to elude being found for more than twenty years, which is a far longer run then he gave himself the night he packed up his single duffel bag of clothes and personal belongings and hit the road.

A run which had eerily familiar similarities to his deciding to come out here in the first place. Impulsion, he decided. Probably his last impulsive act. He had survived such impulsive moves in the past, but not this one, he felt.

No matter. He was old and in some twisted way he had won against whatever forces had driven him out-of-town all those years ago. Even if they got him now, he was just an old man, and what form of victory could one claim against someone who could barely walk let alone give a good chase.

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