A robed figure sits, cross-legged, in the center of the room. Stone walls envelop them, pillars surrounding them, the hard surfaces patterned with a dizzying curtain of square holes.

Coo, coo.

The smells of wheat, of corn, of safflowers, permeate the space. Feathers flutter; sunlight streams in from above.

Coo, coo.

The robed figure sits, mutters, chants. Perched on their head, their shoulders, their knees: pigeons. Perched in the countless crevices, up and down and all around: pigeons.

Fluttering to the robed figure’s finger: Zeke the carrier pigeon.

“Welcome back,” the figure says.

Coo, coo.

The figure unties the miniature walkie-talkie from around Zeke’s neck. “She is ready?”

Coo, coo.

The figure sets Zeke upon their shoulder and pulls a scrap of paper from their sleeve. From their other sleeve, a pigeon quill and a pot of ink. They begin to sketch, mutter, chant. Momentarily, a masterpiece manifests between their fingers.

“This is the last delivery,” the figure says, tying the paper to Zeke. “It’s up to Her now.”

Coo, coo.

Zeke departs. The cote returns to quiet mutters, chants, flutters, and coos.