In Virginia the past doesn’t drift away on the breeze — no, no — it clings, like cobwebs to an old chandelier. In Williamsburg, the cobblestones still shudder under the weight of unseen footsteps, and the Peyton Randolph House sighs at night, heavy with secrets it never meant to share. Out across Cold Harbor’s fields, the ground hums with the memory of battle cries, while the grand old Blue Ridge Mountains sit quietly, smiling, as they watch it all unfold again… and again.
The plantations, once so proud, now droop into the mist, their bones rattling in the wind. And deep within the Appalachian folds, where the light grows thin and the paths grow stranger, the old spirits shuffle a little closer to greet you. You see, Virginia has always lived by a certain philosophy — Sic Semper Tyrannis — thus always to tyrants… and to anyone else foolish enough to think they could outrun its embrace.
So step carefully, dear traveler. Linger if you like. Virginia is ever so welcoming… And when you go, should you hear faint footsteps behind you, or catch a name you thought you’d forgotten whispered on the wind.