Chapter 54 · for subscribers
My grandmother put a bowl on a line down that shaft every spring of her life and swore to me it never found the bottom. There were treads in it, dished in the middle of each one the way the stair under the second shrine was dished, worn by eleven generations of somebody going down. Forty-one arm-lengths of them. Nobody wears a stair out from the top.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.