The Green Enamel Narthex

The air smells of wet cedar and old beeswax. Sunlight enters through the vaulted windows, slicing the forest floor deep within the nave. Moss grows on the stained glass panels, a deep emerald hue contrasting the gold leaf. I carry the letter, my script looping across the cream stock paper, addressed simply to me. A low humming sound vibrates from the choir stalls—a steady, deep C note. My feet press the cool flagstones; I know the precise time, the minutes before the meeting begins, and the pace of my steps will not falter. I lift my wrist. "Elara." The name catches the tongue, a puff of sound, and the letters dissipate before they reach the third stone pillar. The forest trees surrounding the altar stand motionless, holding the silent space.