They gathered in small groups. Three, four, five. Some held candles. Bouquets of paper flowers.They walked down the stairs in unison, one step at a time, humming, rumbling, holding back, as they went.
At the bottom, their voices broke free and they sang.
Tendons straining, eyes bulging, spittle forming in the corner of their mouths.
Their desperate pleas echoed off the domed, cracked ceiling, bounding and bouncing down the tunnels, over twisted, rusted tracks, through blackness not pierced in years. They set the flowers and candles and other offerings on the altar and waited.
But she did not arrive, again.
- 30/30 in April. Didn’t think I could get this done. Thanks for reading.