Spire

The sun had worked hard to summit the buildings. An arduous climb, but the view was something else. The morning had lit up, sending the darkness to crevices of old stone buildings. There was barely a soul in sight; the view from the top of the spire spread for miles. The streets were empty. 

The fine mist left the morning hazy, like old film footage of Edinburgh, not the real thing. One or two people had emerged into the day, slowly moving around in the early morning light. Everything was still; even those who were walking seemed barely to be moving at all. The mist had brought with it a chill. It was the kind of cold that clung to buildings and bus stops and grass.

Cheeks were pink and vision was still blurry; people freshly awake. As they walked through the mist, they left cut-out shapes behind them. Birds were the only ones to make a noise. One might say you could hear a pin drop, but nobody who had to be outside at half past six in the morning was carrying a pin. 

A few more people entered the morning. Still no one seemed to be in a rush; it was as if they were walking in chest-deep water. One man's neck was stiffer than normal; in an effort to loosen it he let his head roll around on his shoulders in a circle. That was the intention, anyway. Before he had managed to complete the circle, something caught his attention. He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, convinced that his mind was still thinking in dreams. 

Most days, churches are peaceful. But seemingly not their spires. Rather far down the spire of St. George's West Church was a body. Face to the sky, limbs hanging out, impaled. From the pavement, he could feel his neck getting stiff again, but it didn't matter anymore. Still unsure about what he was staring at, he fished in his jacket pocket for his phone, never letting his eyes leave the spire.