The Wistful Grid
The letter you wrote was not intended for God, nor for the dead, but for the stone itself, for the cold, unyielding geometry of the cathedral floor that you had spent forty years polishing until it could reflect the heavens better than the sky could. You sat now in the small, stifling chamber beneath the apse, the air thick with the scent of wet limestone and the metallic tang of your own...
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