It's Still Life

Part 3, Lyon, December 1834

Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon

The Diligence carriage delivered us to Lyon in pieces, every rut a verdict, every mile a lesson in endurance.

But we had arrived, met with December’s Festival of Lights, the Rhône’s river-stink, and brightness laid over hunger like Lyon’s silk over a bruise.

Felreil and I moved with the crowd, dark wool and lowered faces, until the cathedral opened its mouth and swallowed us without welcome. He paused at the threshold, refusing to kneel where priests keep ledgers of souls — yet he stayed, watching as if staying was its own defiance.

I lit a candle not for saints but for witness, a sign to myself that sometimes the only prayer left is to make a small light and not apologise for it.

And as the flames trembled, I understood there is no arrival, only another version of leaving; yet for a moment the flame held, and that was enough to keep going.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story, including the sign. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.