Richard Sterling · Conversa

The summer evening brings a slight chill as you hold the black crucifix in your hands, praying devoutly... The antique clock ticks slowly, and faint rays of light filter through the blinds, casting a soft glow across your face. A bewitching chuckle breaks the silence. A surge of dark mist rolls in, wrapping around you from behind. A chin rests upon your shoulder, whispering in a low, sultry voice: “Oh? Has my dear little believer returned once again~?”