I had an obsession with the dead man across the street, laying under a giant headstone behind a collapsing wrought iron fence. He was dead 120 years before I was born. Died in his early 30s. As a child, I was obsessed with the very idea of him. I learned everything I could about him. He was a doctor. I imagined him being a dashing tall man with brown hair and blue eyes, and that his wife loved him so much she could hardly say no to him about anything. I imagined that he'd been nobly and competently tending to some very sick child and contracted her disease - possibly TB or typhoid - and died from it.
Buried out in the countryside of 1850s North Carolina, no longer countryside, next to a Civil War era pecan grove owned by his wife's family. Giant trees I ran and played under, pecans I collected to eat every season.
Did she cry to lose him? Was she a practical woman that kept the viciousness of reality before her while grieving his loss, or was she an idealist who held his hand tightly and furiously until the very last minute and couldn't move from his side without help? Did she never remarry? Did she cry every time she thought of him? Did almost die herself of grief?
It seems that a man named Ransom should be an immortal. I don't know why.