the hymn plays soft. the wind never quite leaves.
"i didn't steal it. but i carried the blame like it had my name on it. that was when they hanged me."
there's a cotton field just beyond this room. you can't see it, but you can feel it. the grass is always damp. the air tastes like dust and something sweeter.
wildflowers bloom in the corners here. even in the dark. chalk dust lingers on the floorboards. if you listen, an old hymn whispers low. sometimes it's his voice.
jedidiah solomon-ray wynn is here. not trapped. not angry. just waiting for someone to get the story right.