The Counting Chain

The doors never quite shut anymore, so the night found its way in without asking. Orin came late, when the streets had thinned out and the chapel stood in that in-between state of being neither used nor abandoned. He took the necklace from its hook by the entrance, turning it once in his hands before wrapping it loosely around his fingers, the red beads catching the light as they shifted.

He didn’t rush it. The first bead pressed beneath his thumb, and he held there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the thought settle before moving on. Each one carried something specific, something he refused to let slip into the blur of days. Names, mostly. A few moments he kept circling back to. The chain moved steadily, the spacing guiding him more than memory ever could, until the rhythm found him again and stayed.

When it was done, he stood there a while longer, the necklace resting warm against his palm. Outside, something moved past the doorway, footsteps or wind, he didn’t check. He hung it back where it had been, the links falling into place with a soft, familiar weight, and left it there for whoever might come after him.