I feel like shit,” said Matheus.
“And how does shit feel?” Heaven asked.
They were outside, in the remains of the garden. Overgrown bushes draped in snow encircled them; soft mounds denoted the dormant flowerbeds. Stone benches coated in frost dotted the area. A stained marble cherub lay in the crushed branches of a bush. An oak tree had sprung up, probably not part of the original design. Judging by its size, at least several decades had passed since anyone tended the garden. Matheus had cleared off one of the benches, and lay down on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“Your wounds are healed,” said Heaven. The hem of her dress brushed over Matheus’ other arm, his fingers dangling in the snow.
“Still feel like shit.”
“You think I deserve it,” Matheus said.
“The sun must rise. To do otherwise would interrupt the order of the universe.”