I come from Hell and am going to Heaven, passing through the Mortal World.
——Stendhal, "Red and Black"
The afterglow of the sunset brought a soft light, falling into St Martin's Church through the colorful stained glass windows.
The air was filled with the mixed scents of candle smoke and the woody aroma accumulated over the years. In the prayer hall, far away from the bustling crowds of Trafalgar Square, an unknown drama was unfolding in a neglected area.
William Turner's brush paused for a moment as he looked up at the girl half-kneeling beside the black oak coffin.
In her hand, she tightly clutched a clean, moist white towel, her trembling fingers gently brushing over the now cold skin, as if for the last time, wiping away the fatigue and suffering of this world for him.
The towel dampened Arthur's lips, and perhaps it was an illusion, but Turner always felt that the dead man's pale face showed a faint blush and softness from this minuscule moisture.
