requiem of throat and stone ____________________________ this particular choir sang itself into silence. i. they sang each dusk until their voices bled—low, relentless, never pausing to breathe. not for prayer. not for mercy. the villagers stopped listening after the first month, but the choir never noticed. their throats split slowly, like fruit left too long in sun. ii. when the silence finally came, it fell sharp as a blade. the statues in the chapel cracked—not with age, but as if something inside had pressed too hard against the stone. now the choir lives there, humming through cold mouths and hollow ribs. if you press your ear to the altar, you’ll hear them still—something between song and sobbing. iii. no one tends the chapel. moss grows over the pews. dust hangs thick like ash. yet candles burn, always. no one lights them. they flicker when the air shifts, and sometimes, from the darkest corners, a voice too many joins your own. if you hum. if you listen. if you stay too long.
