The daylight touched upon the corpse. It was little more than a skeleton covered in dust and cobwebs. The man had died at his desk, his head his own monkish memento mori. The healthy beams of the sun streamed in through the decayed ceiling, and the sleeper, the ancient sleeper, seemed almost hallowed. A moth fluttered around the skull, pale white, like a spirit, almost, dancing, the dead man’s memory of life. In the clawed fingers, resting on the table, the parchment, a little scroll. Surely, it had been old even to the dead man, older than any history told.
Memento Mori
Tale Told 