Silence filled the square. Even the normally blusterous rooftop pigeons appeared hushed into reverence.
The Great Leader was known to be in failing health, yet to those bowing and curtseying he was still a great, immortal God – the one true father of his nation.
At the podium, a supported, trembling arm reached out to pull the cord. The velvet cover slid to the ground. All eyes now focussed on their Leader.
A weak smile; a gentle nod of the head.
Restrained applause rippled through the invited crowd, while, somewhere unseen, a sculptor wiped the sheen of sweat from a relieved brow.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.