That was what upset me, as much as anything - that there were so many lives spent in that place about which no one knows anything. We can't even remember them, only imagine, though we know they're real.

I thought perhaps they were a story I didn't know, like the Green Children of Woolpit. You should write them, if they're haunting you. Even if you don't know their faces or their names or the disposition of their bones. Even if all that can be remembered of them is that they were.