Page 67 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Anyone hurt?”

“The groundskeeper's dog. Broke its leg running from the noise. They had to put it down.” He settled onto a fallen stone that might have been part of the altar, brushing snow from itssurface. “The groundskeeper never forgave them. Not for the chapel. For the dog.”

I followed him, stepping carefully over debris, and sat beside him on the cold stone. The walls blocked the worst of the wind, but the open roof meant we could see the sky above us, heavy with clouds that promised more snow. No stars tonight. Just endless grey pressing down.

“Why here?” I asked.

Art was quiet for a moment, his gloved hands folded in his lap. “Because it's ruined,” he said finally. “Because something terrible happened here, and it's still standing. Still... present.” He gestured at the broken walls. “Everyone else sees destruction. I see survival. The walls didn't fall. The foundation held. It's damaged beyond repair, but it's still here.”

I understood. More than he probably knew.

“First week I was here,” he continued, “everything was too much. The noise, the people, the constant pressure. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. I walked out one night, just walked, trying to find somewhere quiet.” He looked around at the ruined chapel. “Found this. Sat where you're sitting now and cried until I couldn't anymore. Then I went back and decoded three intercepts before dawn.”

“You come here often?”

“When I need to remember that broken things can still be useful.” He glanced at me. “You're the first person I've brought here.”

The weight of that settled over me. This place was his. His refuge, his secret, his proof that survival was possible even after devastation. And he was sharing it with me.

“Thank you,” I said. “For showing me.”

He nodded, pulling his coat tighter against the cold. We sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind whistle through theempty windows, the soft creak of a beam settling deeper into the snow.

“So,” Art said eventually, a hint of challenge in his voice. “You've been learning. Let's see what you remember.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Testing me?”

“Evaluating your progress. There's a difference.”

“Alright.” I shifted on the cold stone, thinking. “Bona nochy.”

“Good. What else?”

“That omi over there has naff riah.”

Art snorted. “There's no omi over there. But grammatically correct. Go on.”

I thought harder, trying to string together what I'd learned into something coherent. “Vada the... the lattie. Nanti bona. Too much...” I struggled for the word. “Too much noise.”

“Too much screech,” Art supplied. “But close. You're getting the structure.”

“Your turn. Say something I won't understand.”

His eyes glinted with something like mischief. “That omi ajax has bona lallies and a dolly eek, but his riah is fantabulosa.”

I parsed it slowly. “That man nearby has nice legs and a pretty face, but his hair is... fantastic?”

“Wonderful. Marvellous. Over the top.” Art was smiling now, a real smile that softened the tired lines of his face. “You're actually good at this.”

“Had a good teacher.”

“You had a distracted teacher who kept forgetting which words he'd already explained.” He pulled out a cigarette, offered me one. I took it, and we sat smoking in the ruins of the chapel while the wind picked up outside.

“Try a full sentence,” Art said. “Something you want to say. I'll tell you if you get it right.”

I thought about it. Thought about what I wanted to say, what I could say, what was safe to put into words even in a language designed for hiding.

“Me joy trolling with you,” I said carefully. “Even when the lattie is naff and the nochy is... cold.”