[ The blood splashes against the now-rotting wood, and—







—not so much as a whisper. All that's left of the presence is its mildew-y residue—or all that you can see, anyway. Perhaps, though, as the blood soaks into the ruined altar, Hurricane feels those words echo in his mind, infectious yet gentle, almost like a question to pose himself:

I construct arcadias to forget my ache, I decorate the light
having so little of it. ]