That X of ground marked out in stone, or banks where stone once was. A few tiles, the suggestion of mighty, fallen, timbers. Now and again, if one is lucky, a fragment of bright, lovely, coloured glass. Around it, human bones, too old to frighten. This was a building, once. No more. Thousands of them, all over the country: one will pass five or six of them in a day's walk.
What were they? Nobody knows, now. They make good meeting places. Perhaps that's what they were meant to say: here, where your path crosses mine, we stop, and speak.