I glance unseen into the hall of remembrance and see the readers murmuring the names – a gentle rhythm of plosive and assonance that has, more than once, lulled me to sleep. I see Minnow, sitting towards the back, hunched forward, elbows on knees in the common pose of the worshipper at the hall of remembrance.

I slip in quietly, edging closer and closer to him. The seats are wooden blocks, individual stools rather than the long benches in the hall of judgement. When we mourn we mourn alone – no one can truly share in our sorrow. I know that the stools at the back of the room are piled in columns and tight rows, extra seats in case of a busy day – I’ve never seen them used. They provide a place for me to stand unseen, to watch and listen. It’s easy to tune out the voices of the readers as they list name after name – soon they are just a background buzz. I lean forward, because Minnow’s lips are moving. I lean forward, and I listen.

Relax, I tell myself. Stop listening to your own heart hammering. And soon enough it comes to me – the voice of a man at the end of his tether. The sound of a soul that has given up hope. His prayer is simple; two words over and over.

“Davey Minnow.”

A name I don’t know whispered in the hall of remembrance. A brother? A son? A father?

I remember their faces when I read from my own book – my own paper with names on it:

Connor Drew. Mel. My birth mother, Miranda Flint, and my father, Joel Flint.

I spoke the names that day, the day I renounced Saintstone. Spoke the names that had been wiped from the book of life – names of those not considered worthy, those who didn’t belong, those who were supposed to be forgotten. I walked out of this room with my head held high, showing my cloak of ink – feeling ready to soar with that crow as I left their gasps and shouts behind. Angriest of all was Jack Minnow.

And yet here he is, whispering in the dark.

Some animal instinct tells him that I am here. He lifts his head as though he can sense me. There is no time to think; I keep my head covered and bolt for the door. Heavy footsteps behind me tell me that he is following, but I am quicker – I hear him stumble over stools and knock them down. I sprint with everything I’ve got across the square towards the door.

I reach the door and glance behind me; Minnow has just passed the statue of Saint. I stop, and he does too. We are frozen. Like a magnet repelling us – he can come no closer.

He has seen me, but I saw him too. I heard him.

We each have each other’s secrets in our pockets, ready to draw them out at the right moment. I won’t hold back. But I will wait.