The temple hung from the cliff like a cracked tooth,
Wind moved through its ribs.
Below, the valley flickered with small lights,
Each one a name he would not say.
She stood inside the circle of carved stone. Bare feet on marble.
No chains.
He almost touched her face.
Stopped.
If he had, his hands would have forgotten what they had come for.
In the basin at the center,
A thin crust of brown-black
remembered everything.
He held the blade level.
Certain, the way a man is certain
when he has loved the thing he’s about to end.
From the valley, a dog howled once.
Then nothing.
She did not close her eyes.
They were full of love and rage in the same breath.
She could have stopped him.
But she let him have this.
He was grateful for that.
And ruined by it.
The first cut was quiet.
A soft opening.
He said her name.
Not God’s.
Hers.
Blood struck stone.
The carvings drank.
Far below, a baby did not wake.
The basin filled slowly.
Patient.
Dawn slid over the valley, untouched.
He remained inside the circle.
Hands dark to the wrist.
She was still warm.
That was the worst part.
Not what he had done,
but that his body still knew hers.
Behind him, the abyss was quiet now.
Fed.
Children would wake.
Unaware.
But he knew.
He would know every morning for the rest of his life.
That was the cost the valley never paid.
