A memory wriggled itself out of the hell of its archive.
Pearson had wanted to wear a jacket when he got out of bed. He loved jackets.
In ages past, our people were few. We could not grow in numbers as constant travel to tap into scarce sources of food kept us at humble numbers. In these days, the careful harvest of the Stoneborn Fig sustained us.
It’s me. Alone in this single room. This uncovered box.
I had read the Words. The same as anyone else. They meant as much to me as they did to the others.
We implored it to stay. Cast ourselves upon the ground below it and cried up to its radiance.
I’m one of the last Piecemen left. We few holdouts who didn’t want to seek refuge in the Light.