The final abomination. The sun drowns in a pool of light, the flesh of the sky bluing with suffocation, darkening to indigo, dulling into a funeral black, shut into the horizon like the slamming of a coffin door.
It quakes, she shakes, and she knows not remembrance. History is always there, counting the threads about her seclusion, even as they choose not to remember what they do not understand, to not pull the final tendril from the ceiling, to unravel the mysteries hidden beneath the shingles.
It is easier to shun than to remember. Her hourglass figure is empty.
But it will be refilled in the…