Norwich

Although it’s full of water it burns well against the wood and stone interior, reflecting the light from vast leaded windows.

The fairground contorted reflection of the Cathedral mesmerizes me. Glowing between the ordered rows of pews. Rosy cheeked bairns baptised there in the bright copper font.

A man comes over to tell me. “It’s from the old sweet factory. It’s a holy anomaly. Was used for the toffee… The chocolate.”

I use it like a mirror. Watch other visitors come in, also drawn gasping towards it. And I tell them. It’s from the factory.

And they, like me, stare.

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