Traverse the northernmost arch where the stone gargolye blackens, then turn right at the softly fizzling gaslamp. You might find the lost echo of a shushed secret, or perhaps nothing at all.

Follow the crumbling wall where spider wires do not weave, bending left until you hear the sober hush of mourning doves. Maybe you will see the shadow of someone's forgotten need, or perhaps ghosts carrying messages you will never read.

Meander under a ceiling questing for descent, where arches kiss forgotten dust and funeral ether. Amongst the drapes of twilight laziness lies an absence, awaiting to be acknowledged and left behind.