A shadow flickers before us, and the goddess hesitates, clutching her hands, gripping them until her knuckles pale to yellow. My eyes flit back and forth before they still—there’s nothing there. This place has a way of taking root deep within you. Creating images only in your mind. Planting suggestions you know to ignore but don’t. That’s what happened to the goddess of the dead before this one. And to be honest, the one before that one, too—they lost all sense of what was and what wasn’t and had to be replaced.
