The Wistful Silence
The wool is wet. That is the first thing you know. Not the cold, not the ache in your ribs, but the weight of the sodden fabric clinging to your skin like a second, heavier body. You are lying on the floor of the chapel, the stone floor, and the dampness soaks into your bones. Above you, the vaulted ceiling is not stone. It is a sky, a bruised purple twilight, swirling with clouds that move too...
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