PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Rouchard
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Griffith had been searching for the last syllable, the last few letters of The Word for twenty centuries. It was rather anti-climactic that he should find it on a cheap bookshelf in this hovel.
He ran a grateful finger over the binding of the black tome on the lower shelf. The spine contained a letter only he could read. Once he assembled The Word and spoke it, a peace beyond all understanding would encompass the globe.
A sound from the doorway. “You have led Legion on a merry chase, Griffith. Or is it that we let you bring us here?”
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