nyllyn

 Amber sunlight was just beginning to creep past the tea shop's front window, staining the hardwood floor gold. Illuminating the whorls of dust that choked the still air. Chairs turned upside down atop tables, the door sign still stubbornly flipped to "closed", people who would usually stop and attempt to peer inside now merely glanced, and then continued along the footpath. It had been a week since Francis O'Malley, owner and proprietor of the small space, had died. Celain, sitting silent in a far corner of the building, back to the wall and knees hugged to his chest, stared unblinkingly off at nothing. And had been doing so for the last