We finally reached the entrance of the village and the wide stone archway topped with Foxglove Parish written in bold, black letters. The dirt path we’d traveled converged with the once-bustling cobblestone road that ran through the center of the village, flanked on either side by long stretches of shops and homes, their steep roofs blanketed in fresh snow. Gas lamps stood cracked and unused, and at the center of the town, the frozen fountain, whose statues once spouted water, remained quiet and still. Haunting. On the left, we passed the village apothecary, where I’d sometimes dropped off
