Old women sang the hymns as the stereotype of society assumes confirmation. Monotonous chants reverberated the cold halls. The knees dragged on. The old women looked at the familiar archway face.
He cocked his head reluctantly. The tattoos in his neck stretched. His scar under his left eye was ominous. It was shaped like a cross.
A cross. A very vivid cross. As vivid as the cross hanging from his rosary beads.
All stopped suddenly. A crack from a nearby forest was heard. He took a step forward.
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