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The bells of the old cathedral had not

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rung for Vespers in half a century. but

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Julian knew the exact cadence of their ghost.

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He pulled his wool coat tighter against his

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chest as he stepped out of the narrow

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alleyway and into the vast historic square.

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A light winter drizzle was falling. painting the

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expanse of dark cobblestones in a shimmering. slate

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-like sheen that reflected the amber glow of

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the city's gas lamps.

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Overhead. the sky hung low and heavy in

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soft dusk light. bruised with shades of violet

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and charcoal.

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Dominating the plaza was the Baroque masterpiece itself.

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a towering mountain of intricate stone spires and

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sculpted marble that pierced the evening mist.

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Every facade was a labyrinth of weeping angels.

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curling acanthus leaves and deep alcoves. all rendered

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tactile and glistening by the steady mist.

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Julian walked slowly toward the towering oak doors.

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his footsteps echoing softly in the empty square.

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He ran a gloved hand along a low

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stone bench. feeling the cool. damp texture of

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ancient marble beneath his palm.

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The city around the plaza was quiet. holding

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its breath as night settled over the European

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streets.

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He had come here every December 7th. not

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out of religious devotion. but to feel the

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immense. reverent silence that lived in the shadow

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of the great architecture.

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As he reached the heavy iron ring of

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the central portal. the drizzle ceased. leaving the

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air crisp and the old square wrapped in

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a profound. peaceful stillness.