Meditation amongst the dead.
The stream buried deep beneath the old power station sent its quiet song upwards to the
space Annika had set her carpet on. Not many visitors made the trek up here between festival days. Death was maybe too close to most for them to want to spend any extra time among the memories of everyone who’d been taken. Every time there was a culling Annika found herself drawn to this palace of old power, of memories.
To think. To wonder. To repent.