the god does not breathe. he watches.
his face — if it can be called a face — is haloed in rotted light, fixed above the world like an eye that never closes. the people below no longer look up. they have learned to ignore the sound of his gaze.
except for one girl. she ties ribbons to rocks and throws them skyward like prayers. they never reach. but he watches them fall.
and he wonders, if only once, what her voice would sound like if she spoke his name.