The Thorned Choir A cluster of faceless children fused together at the ribs, each wearing identical rotted choir robes. From their mouths grow thorny vines, connecting them to one another in silence. Their voices, when they sing, are beautiful—too beautiful. The melody triggers vivid visions of your worst moments. They hover, their feet not touching the floor, heads swaying as one. A broken halo made of barbed wire spins above them. Their song ends only when someone joins. And they always need one more voice.

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