wren

the angel said to them, be not afraid.

the abandoned church struck a lone silhouette against the horizon. over time the building had succumbed to nature's persistent stride, mildew clung to the softened wood and weeds peeked through the floorboards. It had been built on the outskirts of town so that it would be closer to the wilderness, closer to god. after the blight that decimated the population, the thriving settlement that once occupied these golden plains had been reduced to skeletons of forsaken houses and whispers of sundown apparitions. the church was the first to be abandoned, the first to rid itself of human presence. well, the presence of the living anyways.

when the death toll had reached its peak, masses of bodies were overcrowded into the churchyard cemetery. to this day the scent of decay lingers, detectable only to the keen canine nose. yet this sickness stench did not ward off all wolves....

the graveyard guard, as she was known, kept passing visitors away, though she was nothing to be afraid of. she had stolen the name of the birds, along with their duty. at dawn, no birdsong could be heard, only lonesome howls. maybe it wasn't any ordinary howling either. some say she sings to the dead, and sometimes, they answer.