I walk through the door. Silence greets me, but for the sounds of my footfalls echoing across the dusty stone floor. No one comes here anymore. The stigma is too great. Too many memories linger between the shafts of colored light that glaze the pews.
The cathedral surrounds me, encompasses me in the quiet solitude it brings.
I look at the floor. Inlaid into the stones are old words, words which bear frightening implications on all who view them.

Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
your old men shall dream dreams,
your young men shall see visions.

That’s why I’m here. I’m tired. Questioning. Unable to muster any conclusions or answers about what I should do. At the altar, bathed in the stained-glass glow, dozens of pencils, pens, quills, anything used to write, have been laid. All signify a single thing: for every tool is a person who has forsaken writing, permanently. Never has anyone come here and made the wrong decision.
I finger my fountain pen, and step forward.