The last word, a whispered “surrender,” hung in the air, a silken thread of sound after the poetry reading on desire and denial. Nandini, perched on a velvet-cushioned pew, felt it reverberate in her chest, a strange echo of her own guarded heart. The main hall of the old church, now the celebrated ‘Sanctum’ retreat, hummed with the afterglow of shared vulnerability. Murmurs and polite applause rippled through the gathered creatives, but Nandini felt a familiar pull towards solitude. She craved the quiet of stone, the cool embrace of history.
She slipped away, a shadow detaching from the lingering crowd. Her heels clicked softly on the polished oak floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant chatter. The air, thick with the scent of old wood and beeswax polish, grew cooler as she ventured deeper into the church’s less-trodden chambers. Stained-glass windows, once vibrant with saints and scripture, now depicted abstract swirls of sapphire and ruby, casting fractured light across the narrow corridors. Each archway, each alcove, whispered forgotten prayers and unspoken secrets.
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