The harp had not been touched in over two thousand years. For those who believed, it was a relic from the funeral of Jesus Christ. For those who did not, it remained a priceless archaeological find.

The cook’s hands were calloused and dirty. Streaks of grease stained the harp’s ancient frame as he hefted it from the alter, soaking swiftly into the dry, sacred wood. He spat into his filthy palms.

No one was quick enough to stop him.

As his fingers stroked the ancient strings, as the notes rang out across the cathedral, everyone who heard could only weep.

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