English Major Dream

“This can’t be right.”
Glass buildings still surround us but now there’s something more. An alcove kept hidden from the modern world. A bare skinny tree hangs over five stone headstones. City of London is stamped into a single wooden bench across from the graves which is the only part that stakes claim to the new millennium.
We walk through the gate of the iron fence. Huddling around a small book, we argue about where we are at. We were supposed to be find a trio of gargoyles guarding the door of a building near here but nothing of the kind was here.
I admit that I think we're lost which is not something you want to hear yourself say in an unknown city. A silver-haired gentleman with a wool trench coat and a briefcase walks into the gated area with us. He gives us a nod and proceeds to sit on the bench where he pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
Refusing to give up, we proceed to try to find what we came searching for in the first place. The gentleman watches as we four girls wonder around with our necks craned to the sky. I shield my eyes as I squint up a building. Another girl starts to feel around on another building. He probably thinks we're silly or mad in the head. He can most likely tell we're lost.
"Do you not know where you are?"
His accent was Kentucky mixed with a twang of English. He begins to explain that this little secret is the birthplace of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. The cemetery is where Dickens wrote about Scrooge seeing his own marked grave and the small building behind him, the one with the iron lantern hanging by the doors, was the inspiration for Scrooge's business.
Due to us focusing on finding our gargoyles, we neglect to notice the small white building which stands out against the glass. In golden letters, The Counting House now calls out to us.
Awe overwhelms me. I relish in this shadowed haven. My other English majors back home will never believe me. This is the birthplace of a tale that is now a Christmas classic across the world; an opportunity I almost neglect.
The gentleman stands, snuffs out his cigarette and leaves. He leaves me with pride. I feel one with the story that carries me through many Christmases; a story that still leads me to believe in giving second chances.
As we start to leave the alcove, I stop one last time to admire the headstones. One is covered in dead leaves. I take a moment to push them away. I want to keep this place safe, to allow it to thrive for the next unsuspecting visitor.