Jericho awoke earlier than usual. The sun hadn't even thought of peeking over the horizon. He rubbed at his eyes and stretched in the bed that Thomas had so kindly let him take for the evening. The mattress was so much better than his cot.
He sat up and blinked in the darkness. A pattern seemed etched into his sight - and the remnants of a dream fought to remain relevant in his brain. He shook his head to clear it, though that pattern remained etched in his mind. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and in two quick motions stripped the sheets. He'd remake it later; no one would be checking into this room for many hours to come.
Jericho gently got dressed and padded out into the bleak morning. He strolled aimlessly, relishing in the chilly air. There was no meaning to his ambles. But just as the sun cracked the horizon, he looked up and was shocked to find himself at the church of the faithful. It wasn't as if he didn't know the building - he was just confused why his feet took him here.
His eyes found the side, and his memory jogged. A red streak ribboned across the wall, reminding him oddly of... Jericho's feet were on the move again. They brought him to a back alley, where he had ditched an expired can of paint from a previous job. They brought him back to the church.
He pried open the can and plunged his hand into the paint, not caring about the rancid smell or murky texture. As if unbidden, Jericho's hands pressed against the coarse wood and flecking paint, working in near meditation and silence as his memory placed his impression on the wall.
