Page 82 of Hollowed

Sweetness sliding into rot.

I chewed anyway.

I swallowed.

And the aftertaste clung to my throat like grief.

He didn’t speak.

Or he noticed—and chose not to.

That was worse.

I set the fruit down. Wiped my fingers on my thigh.

And suddenly the chapel felt smaller.

Not sacred.

Suffocating.

The fire had grown cold. The basin was dry. The robe he’d worn still lay across the altar, neatly folded like a ritual left unfinished.

The silence didn’t soothe me.

It scraped.

“Is this all there is?” I asked.

His head turned.

“Here?” he said.

I nodded.

He didn’t answer.

And that silence said more than any yes ever could.

I looked down at the food, the clean linen, the soft ache in my belly. And I realized?—

This was stillness, not life.

This was memory on repeat.

This was the momentafterthe vow, when nothing moves and everything starts to ruin.

Even worship spoils if left untouched.

I stood.

He didn’t follow.

He just watched.

“I need… to know what else there is,” I said.

He didn’t speak.

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