Pastel pink walls decorated with solid white crosses. The low humming of the lights, flickering and glowing dimly. The sickly sweet smell of rotting flowers. Others may walk in, softly muttering the same phrase, the same phrase, the same one over and over before departing. You cannot understand it. It is not spoken in any language you recognize. The god that they cherish is unknown to you. But you listen, and you watch, and you wait as the days pass on outside. You will not leave this building. You are a part of it now. And when the walls start to decay and the windows crack and shatter and the ceilings fall in, you will rot with it.

Trapped in the remains of the broken church. You beg to be freed. You beg for forgiveness.

But no god will come to save you.