Sal the bricklayer

Under the cold shroud of night, Sal’s worn hands cradled another brick, his heart pounding a rhythm against his ribs. Moonlight traced the outlines of the old church, casting a ghostly glow on the unfinished wall, its hollow core a cage.

“Another brick, Sal,” the man from the Organization whispered, his acrid breath tingling his spine. He nodded, smeared mortar, pressed the brick into place. A muffled whimper seeped from the wall, swallowed by the hush of the night.

Silently, he worked, his hands methodical, his eyes vacant. Each brick masked a plea, each layer concealed a secret. In the morning, a wall stood – silent, impenetrable, undisturbed