Passing many possible places to complete her ritual, she reaches a stone statue of a man in a mitre. Nicolas the Patron Saint of Children, says the plaque. Accepting this, the woman picks up a circle of wax.
The wick catches fire, like the birth of a new soul. The little light dances, seemingly with life. She doesn’t sit or kneel but stands with her arms at her side, palms open.
Slowing her breathe, she lowers her real-world defences. Hearing the choir’s harmonies, smelling old incense, and looking to the vast height of the nave, she lets the universe in.