Chapter 11 · free to read
Weber. Callahan. Ives. Nine days of men, every one of them awake, every one of them watching me come up the aisle.
It was trying to sing a burial office. It had the shape of the tune and not one of the words, and it had been at it for a century and a third.
It had grown over the entire nave and left one clean rectangle. It could not open the box and it would not grow across it. It was waiting to be handed something.
The names had been under the altar the whole time. Three feet under the floor of a building that ate forty men trying to get at them.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.