"A cloister," he said, his smile tired, distant, his silver-gray eyes shimmering.
"A little open walk behind the choir halls. The marble was warmer there. The wind made the bells hum if you stood very still. I used to."
Sylvara tilted her head, her crimson leaves rustling. "Stand still?"
"Listen," he said, drawing a curve where a bell hung. "The bells were too clean inside. Out here, everything rings… with edges. There, it was… hollow and perfect. Lonely, but not cruel."
"You miss it," she said, not a question, her amber eyes steady.
"Some parts," he admitted, his voice soft. "The parts that felt like listening."
A small bulb opened on her wrist, as if to hear him better. "And the names?" she asked, nodding to the scratches along the arch.
Azareel's hand paused, his silver eyes distant.
