The abbey stands broken against the grey sky. Stone arches rise, empty and cold, like ribs of a dead beast. The grass grows high in the cloister walk where monks once prayed. Wind moves through the hollows, carrying the sound of crows. The walls lean but do not fall. They remember the weight of bells, the smell of incense, the hush of voices at dawn. Now only silence lives here, except the rain and the birdcall. A place built for God, left to ruin by men. Still it endures, hard stone against time, stripped bare, but unyielding.