The sky was stretched out in front of the Minarets. The smallness granted to the sky by urbanization somehow vanished in the instant. A streak of black clouds marked a distant milestone against the diluted blood-like color of the sky. A mountain could have been felt in that distance.
The cold marble floor reminded him of the silent withering of his life. He got near the grave and sat down at a corner around it. Someone had told him that the place contained healing. And that healing sort of intensified at the time of Fajr.
He thought about the places that needed healing within himself. The moment he thought of them, a well rehearsed pattern of requests from the divine emerged. The process of asking felt mechanical. He felt an apathy towards it. He got up and decided to leave. An unconscious glance towards the sky told him that it was not the same anymore.
Yet the promise of healing didn't fail him. His perception of healing did.