Sepulcher

The musty air was mixed with the faintest tint of death, like the subtle fumes of a grave, odors which nature knows but man cannot smell. Nature knows, but doesn’t care; man would care if he knew that he walked over a grave.

Underground, Chance walked, his little candle dripping hot wax unto his hand, his little light just barely revealing the darkness ahead. He wondered then if this tunnel led him under the graveyard, under the marked stones chiseled with names and dates; forgotten stones, memories.

Forgotten memories like phantoms swelled in the corners of his mind; perception a deadly light to them. They were shadows, shades of memory, which could only be remembered by not thinking at them too hard.

Loved ones long dead, faces, tones, smells—all lost as if in a dream; a nursery dream dreamt long, long ago. The world had changed so much. Cars had gotten faster; for some reason plans had gotten worse; but Chance had stayed—weathered and worn and tired, Chance remained. Even the memory of how it had happened was too faint to really recall. A deadly fire, a ferocious fire, and an evil promise made to . . . his memory failed.

Starting from his musings, Chance saw, dimly, a faint glow ahead, and voices, too, he heard.