Green Stone and Rotting Wood

The yellow rotary telephone screams against the damp wool carpet. It hangs off the hook, the plastic base warm to the touch. Moss grows thick on the Gothic ribs of the arches, and the air smells of petrichor and wet pine needles. The cathedral floor gives way suddenly to root systems, mapping the space between nave and woodland. I press my palm flat against the cool stone wall. Behind me, the mirror mounted high on the pillar shifts. It shows the spot where I stood seven seconds prior, showing the dust motes suspended, the precise angle of the shaft of light that enters from the stained glass window. The ache settles in my jaw, a deep, vibrating thrumming that does not belong to my shoulders or my ribs. I reach out to the mirror, tracing the glass surface until my finger meets the reflection of the abandoned phone.