Timothy heard his father’s voice, ten years after his death, floating through the still air. It was something he had gotten used to in prison: the shrill screams and epithets that no one heard but him, the midnight burns and midmorning cuts, the curses and profanity -- like a serpent’s hiss -- that spat at him alone.

The dead never changed their minds. The inky-black veil of silence that hung between those still drawing breath and those with only the memory of doing so, somehow dampened change. Those that died with an opinion were stuck with it until the strands of time itself unraveled and frayed.

If anyone would be willing to read the rest and give me some feedback, I'd greatly appreciate it and be willing to reciprocate.