The scent of old stone and damp earth was Aoife Brogan's preferred perfume, a stark contrast to the delicate rose and jasmine that would soon fill the air on her wedding day. Even now, with the invitations sent and the final fittings scheduled, a disquieting hum thrummed beneath the surface of her bridal bliss. It was a call, insistent and melodic, to places others hurried past - the skeletal remains of Catholic churches, their spires reaching like bony fingers towards an indifferent sky, their stained-glass eyes long since blinded. This fascination wasn't new. It had been a quiet companion for as long as she could remember, a persistent whisper in the back of her mind that grew louder with each passing year. Perhaps it had begun with a half-remembered childhood visit to a crumbling abbey, the hushed reverence of the place etching itself onto her young consciousness. Or maybe it was a recurring dream, a mosaic of fractured light and echoing chants that left her with a profound sense of longing and unease upon waking. Whatever its origin, it had evolved into an almost obsessive need to peel back the layers of neglect, to excavate the stories entombed within these forgotten sanctuaries.