May 2
3 min read
The End of All Days
Faint beams of sunlight shine through ancient cracks in the ceiling. The dappled yellow of the sun’s rays plays patterns against vines that wrap up table legs in a mother’s smothering hug. Green fingers stretch for the light, twirling, entwining, eager to bathe in life itself. The bar is empty, as it has been for many a year. Dust has settled on each seat, carefully smoothing their harsh curves with white snow, the soft paths of small creatures tracing invisible roads onto their surface.
