Priest John left with a complex but still resolute expression. Before leaving, he asked nothing, and Agatha didn't explain any further.
Now, once again, only Agatha remained in the prayer room—bright light struggled against the substantial darkness outside the windows, a few cold flames flickered on the candelabrum before the holy image, a wisp of smoke still rose from the extinguished brazier, and reflected in the floor mirror beside her was her fragmented body.
Agatha turned to face the holy image of Bartok, lifted her head, and with eyes covered in black cloth she "gazed" for a long time at the deity shrouded in the night. The statue was as always, but in her eyes, the tall sculpture was already full of cracks, as if a heap of debris that should have already collapsed was still maintaining superficial integrity, supported by some invisible force.
She sensed the breath within the cathedral—increasingly more breaths of the dead.
