The church was empty now. The bodies had been carried to the cairn that was being built on the ridgeline, a monument of stone and memory that would stand for generations. The sheets had been folded and stored, the floor washed clean, and the pews returned to their places. The scent of death still lingered, faint but persistent, a reminder of what had been lost.
I stood at the altar, my hands resting on the cold stone, my eyes fixed on the window where the grey light of the northern dawn was beginning to fade. The day was ending, though I did not know when it had begun. Time had lost meaning in the hours since the battle and had become nothing but the next task, the next breath, and the next moment of survival.
The doors of the church opened behind me, and I heard footsteps—slow, hesitant, the steps of people who were not sure of their welcome. I turned.
