I left a piece of my own chocolate bar in the tin and buried it back under the beam. Some ruins deserve to stay ruins. But some ghosts deserve to know they weren’t forgotten.
I hit enter.
Should you go looking for Baby John’s hut?
And then, I found it.
I didn’t find a tourist destination. I didn’t find a trekking route.
I asked the owner of my guesthouse in McLeod Ganj, a man named Dorje who has seen ten thousand trekkers come and go. “Baby John?” He laughed, a sound like gravel rolling downhill. “Ah. The lost baker.”
It read: