The stones were old, very old. Things had happened here. I laid my hand flat on a dressed block, and my palm tingled. The past spoke through me. There was smoke, and screams, and the clash of metal. A warrior king strode the battlements, looking out to sea, desperate to glimpse allied sails.
I possessed a gift.
Like anyone blessed with The Sight, I endured mockery.
My wife brandished the site guide. “Don, this was a granary, not a castle.”