“Grim is the occasion that brings us together,” Lord Gravven said, his head bowed low, the ring on his finger glinting in the light of the candles burning throughout the church. Hundreds of faces watched him, lining the pews.
“A year has passed,” he continued, “since the terrible fire that claimed our beloved Brother Tomas and my wife. A year since their lives ended in – ”
He looked up, over the crowd, and there upon the balcony he saw them – her dress pale, his robe dark, a strange light dancing over them.
“Tragedy.” He struggled to continue, hoping that none of the others noticed the ghosts. “And we continue to pray for them and that justice– Justice be done…”
She stretched out a hand towards him, accusing finger aimed true as an arrow. Her face grew terrible as storm and sea, her eyes like unquenchable fire.
She marked him as her killer.
“Ignore her!” he cried. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. I didn’t kill them!”
The crowd murmured, glancing up at the empty balcony.
Lord Gravven sunk to his knees, eyes full of tears.
“What do you want with me?”
She gave no answer.
Word Count: 194
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to A Mixed Bag for the photo prompt!