Something’s off, and not right. Tilt to the left and see a stain in the marble, imperfections snaking through the coils and folds of stone fluidity. The priestess chanted, prayed, and performed the ritual to perfection, but the spell failed to connect. If she started over nothing would change, the outcome would remain the same: echoes of light gave no shadow, or warmth. Uncatchable, and hollow on the inside: she hugged her middle, and held on, when no one else would. Sometimes she could only live in the hollow space of herself. Love had visited; of that she had faith.