Your creation - a piece of you. The text is the author.

It wasn’t until several months later that the priest’s nephew and grandniece came to visit him at home.

“I still don’t understand what you were doing up there all by yourself, Uncle. At your age, you should have known.” Unsurprisingly, the comatose man did not respond. The nurse on the other side of the room sniffled, but said nothing.

His daughter delicately grasped his hand. “Daddy, Charles from Sunday school says grandpa’s gonna die.”

He looked down to meet his daughter’s watery eyes and crouched beside her. “Sweetie, Charles doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t listen to a word out of that spoiled rotten boy’s mouth.” He stood and his eyes met those of his good friend the Architect, who had just entered the room. “Stay here with Grandpa.” He patted his daughter’s head and ushered his friend outside.

Before he could open his mouth, the Architect interrupted. “I already know, the nurse told me.” There was an uncomfortable silence.

Henri Regnault's Madame Mazois on her Deathbed

Sniffles and sad sighs.

The Shepherd’s padded pacing and occasional whines.

Wind howling against the sides of the Priest’s hollow house.

All around them was the music of the world mourning immanent loss.

“So he built that cross on the peak?” The Architect gestured out the window at the lofty cross.

“And then he fell.” Silence again. “Thank God the dog was with him.”

“I wonder if the dog thinks about it.”

“Don’t be daft.”

The Architect ignored him. “You know, his spirit is up there.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Haven’t you heard of Walter Benjamin?”

The Priest’s nephew shook his head.

“This may be his last day, but he’s left a piece of himself, his aura, in that cross. That cross can never be exactly reproduced, because it was his. It is what’s left of him.”

“Amen.”