Leaning on a red mahogany walking stick, he stood crookedly atop the grassy pinnacle, surveying the almost unidentifiable remains of the fallen holy edifice. Faded memories emerged momentarily like rays of sunshine amidst a hurricane’s eye. The church seemed a relic, the result of a targeted bombardment in some distant war. It could be said that the building had been blown to bits by indifference, his included. But he didn’t feel regret, exactly, but rather a longing for a time when he didn’t have to try so hard to find meaning.
He walked to what had been the altar and, with effort, sat upon the ground listening for a soft whisper.
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