He chose a church.
Of course he did.
I stood at the entrance for a moment — cold stone, narrow windows, a door left open just wide enough that walking through it felt like a choice rather than a trap — and adjusted my face to nothing and went in.
The nave was stripped bare. No pews, no cloth, just old stone and the kind of silence that settled into places people had stopped using for their original purpose. The stained glass was still intact. Morning light came through it in fragments — red, blue, amber — falling across the floor in broken pieces.
In the centre of all of it, the ritual circle.
