The Skeleton of the Spire

We built the arches first, drawing breath from the dust of shattered stone to coax the limestone upward, a ribcage reaching for a nonexistent sky.

The mortar cured before the rain could settle, locking our fingerprints into the joints, invisible beneath the sheer weight of ambition and quiet desperation.

Now the wind whistles through the incomplete nave, singing a song of the builders long forgotten, while the sun casts fractured shadows upon the earth that waits to take it all back.