House of El

Kayla-Al was already over sixty. She looked like an aristocratic lady, not particularly old. Her voice was not loud, yet her shrill, grief-stricken cry spread throughout the surroundings. Time itself seemed to freeze around them. The unceasing sobs and sounds of grief gradually quieted. Though the crowd who had already watched the documentary more than five times was still filled with sorrow, they had recovered enough amid their crushing grief to regain something close to rational thought.