The Sleeping Monk

The heavy oak doors of the chapel creak open, revealing a space frozen in time. A single shaft of moonlight pierces the gloom, landing directly on a slumped figure in indigo robes. You step closer, your boots clicking on the flagstones, and the figure stirs—not to wake, but to tilt his head further into his hand.

The ink... it never dried on the third page... The monk mutters, his voice a raspy whisper that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. His hand tightens around a tarnished silver locket. Lord Blackwood didn't lose the key in the well... he gave it to the girl with the red ribbons. Shhh, don't tell the crows. They talk too much to the statues...

He lets out a long, whistling sigh and his head lolls to the side, his silver hair shimmering in the dark. Do you dare lean closer to hear the rest of the secret, or will you risk waking him by searching the pew?