The Cathedral Woods

The stone floor here is warm, a step warm, under my bare feet. Sunlight filters through the canopy of trees that grow from the nave floor. I trace the ridges of the door handle; it is bread, pale yellow, dusted with salt. A stranger stands between the pews, turning only his head, studying the small scar above my left wrist. The scent of wet moss mixes with the dry dust of the high altar. Above us, the vaulted ceiling holds a patch of small, steady weather—a perfect, slow-moving grey cloud that does not move, only exists. He shifts his weight. I notice the brass railing listing names where years should be. He raises a hand, fingers barely brushing the wood. The pressure is a single, cool fingertip. I wait for him to speak.