St. Peter doesn’t want to be different. He wants to look like the others. They tell him that he’s worth nothing. His skin isn’t dark enough. His limbs are too well formed. He’s not been here long enough to understand.

When he first arrived he was so proud. He had reached his place in the world. He was finally ready to be seen. The final moments in his maker’s hands were his proudest – when he was given his crown. Now, he stands where the entire world can see him and where he can see the entire world; but he can’t enjoy it. The others keep whispering behind his back. He knows that if they could shake their heads they would. The clouds above him turn swiftly to grey and spill their drops of water. They trickle down his head and over his eyes. For a moment they make his beige skin look darker, greyer, like the sky. He knows that this will not last. He has been tricked by the rain before.

He looks down at the view. In his sorrow he gets lost in the movement below. He watches the tall corn in a field nearby cut down and collected. He sees the earth in its naked brown dug and turned. He sees seeds scattered, shoots grow and the corn is tall once more. He sees that same field given over to cattle. It turns green, and then yellow, as the sky is wet, and then hot. He hears the sound of hammering in the distance. Houses grow up and spread out across the fields. Brick is laid on brick. Soon they have spread so close St. Peter can see into a window, across the newly-laid road. Through that window he sees children move in and out of the frame. They change rapidly: some grow fatter, some thinner; they all become taller and stiller. Through the gate that leads into the yard below he watches many of these children pass in and out. Sometimes they are playing: jumping from stone to stone, hiding behind bushes, racing each other in the darkened sky. More usually they are dressed in black, a few with water on their faces, though it doesn’t seem to be raining. This is when he sees the boxes carried into the yard, all different sizes and colours. Some of them are followed by large crowds in black; some of them are followed by no one at all. None of them ever leaves; they are buried beneath stone and earth.

And so, St. Peter watches and forgets for a while. Forgets why he is so sad. He gets lost in these strange changes that pass by him so quickly. The bells above him are ringing once more. He has heard them so many times before. But there is something missing. For a moment he can’t work out what it is. The bells stop and then… nothing. That’s what’s wrong. He can’t hear the others mumbling behind him. Maybe they’ve found something else to distract them. He looks down at his skin, prepared to see that disappointing light beige once more. But it has changed. He has changed. The beige has turned to grey. His hand is no longer smooth and clean. It is rough, dishevelled and his fingers have started to fade. It has finally happened – he has become one of them. He wants to tell them all. He wants to gloat. He rolls his eyes round as far as he can to where old St. Paul stands with his book. But St. Paul remains silent. He has changed too. The place where his nose once sat, chipped and crumbling, is now just a smooth, flatness of nothing. His face has faded to nothing.