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Lithic cradle

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The stillness seems imposed upon the tombs interior by the stagnant air. The space holds an ancient quality.  Testament to the mason's skill; the  cracks are scarce, where they exist they are highlighted by fine white powder, caught in the little niches they offer on walls otherwise smooth and spotless. The rock of the vaulted ceiling, the perfectly level flagstoned floor and the sarcophagi  have a lustreless look as if the surfaces themselves have aged.

From the ornately carved entrance (a wide, arching aperture of finely hewn stone) in which a lone figure stands the chamber could well be filled with glass, entrapping its contents in an everlasting crystalline grip. The figure stands hesitant to violate the cold tranquility. The torch in their hand brings light unfelt for hundreds, perhaps a thousand years. Ignoring an irrational urge to reach out in case of such a barrier, they step forward.  The first footstep is muffled by the age-old dust which stirs, woken from its rest. 

The End
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