The creaking wooden pews, monophonic chants, and the suppressed childish giggles were background noise that never diverted her attention or altered her rigid posture as she absorbed every detail of the young altar boy directly in front of her.
“He’s growing into a lovely young man”, she quietly thought to herself.
There’s little left of that past life other than the soft ash of her torched memories and their collective shame. She tends to it all now. Marrying their history into the back of her mind, where she keeps it safe until it’s time for her to let go.
Thoughts
Life can hold deceptions, like a spider’s web, stronger than they appear, full of connections and impenetrable until that thread is broken.
This short story was based on a part of the post below.
Life at No. 22 