The Holy Mother Church stood like the stone heart of Valeria Capital. Its Gothic arches reached not toward the sky but toward oblivion; its stained-glass windows painted the daylight in blood red and cold blue. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and fear. A blond boy stood at the pulpit—Michael Hollowedan. His eyes burned with pure hatred, but beneath it, a fragile sorrow lingered. His face was covered in bruised marks, his father's slaps still fresh. Yet, he was clearly well cared for—his white suit, adorned with ornate embroidery, was fit for a saint. Still, he was frail compared to his peers; his shoulders seemed to buckle under an unbearable weight.
At the opposite pulpit stood a woman and a man—Maria and Adam Aderia, Michael's mother and father. Maria was drowning in tears; the skin beneath her eyes sagged from sleeplessness and despair. She wore a silk dress, incongruous with the poverty of the masses—as if prepared not for a wedding but an execution. Her jet-black hair was tied in a tight bun; her face was pale as a mask. Adam, meanwhile, stared blankly at the sunlight filtering through the stained glass. His bow-tied suit was impeccable but soulless; his dark hair was combed with military precision. Michael stole glances at his father—hatred, fear, and, for a moment, a plea.
The church slowly filled. Each robed figure who entered stared at Michael, then cursed his family. "Heretics," they whispered. "Those who raise a hand against God's chosen." The voices slithered like snakes. Michael's heart pounded in his chest. Do they deserve this? His mind flickered to the scene of his beating—his father's slaps, his mother's cowardly eyes. Hatred burned within him, but something felt wrong.
The judge, Pope Pierre Lucci, entered in a long brown robe. His steps echoed on the stone floor like a bell. His booming voice shook the church:
Meum cor tibi vivit.
Sanguis meus, voluntas tua.
Non sum nisi tua umbra.
Lucem tuam in tenebris haurio.
Cado ante te, sine fine.
Ex nihilo, et in te revertar.
The words were not a prayer but a chain. The congregation felt the vibrations in their bones; some fell to their knees. Michael's ears buzzed with the words. My heart lives for you. My blood, your will. I am but your shadow. I draw your light in darkness. I fall before you, endlessly. From nothing I came, to you I return. The judge silenced the murmuring crowd with a wave of his hand. His gavel struck the pulpit with a stone-like thud.
"God's precious servants," he said, his voice both a hymn and a threat. "I, your judge, Pope Pierre Lucci, will oversee this trial." The gavel struck again, freezing the congregation. "The case of the witness Michael Hollowedan has been noted by the Church. The witness has long been subjected to violence by his father."
A wave of shock rippled through the church—"Aaaaaa!" The congregation whispered, some hurling curses. The Pope slammed the gavel, silencing them. "By our decree, Michael Hollowedan is God's chosen. Violence against him is akin to blasphemy. His family is sentenced to the Soul-Confession Punishment."
The congregation held its breath. Michael's eyes darted to his father. Do they deserve this? His mind was a swamp. His father's slaps, his mother's silence—hatred consumed him. But something felt wrong. Soul-Confession Punishment… what was it? No one had explained. His heart pounded. Am I doing the right thing? He opened his mouth to speak, but a shadow climbed the pulpit.
A man in black, with anachronistic elegance, stood there. Strange, round glasses half-hid his face in shadow. "Hey, Michea," he said, his voice mocking but sharp as a blade. "How's it going?" Michael froze. Michea? No one called him that. He studied the man—black cape, old-fashioned vest, but the details… blurred. His face was visible, yet Michael's mind couldn't process it. Who are you? The man tugged Michael's hair, planting a cold kiss on his forehead. Michael wanted to push him away, but his body was rigid as stone.
"YOU AGAIN, AND YOUR CHOICES!" The man let out an exaggerated laugh, the church echoing, yet no one noticed him. The congregation was fixated on the judge. "It's all because of you, Michea," he said, his eyes narrowing, trembling with delight. "If you hadn't been born, these people wouldn't die. You, cursed child, extinguish every hearth you touch." His voice seeped like poison. Michael's ears began to itch—vile, unbearable. He couldn't move his hands. The itch spread to his brain; blood trickled from his ears, hot and sticky. "REMEMBER!" the man screamed, but the sound drowned in Michael's mind. Who are you? The man blurred for a moment, then sharpened, grinning.
The Pope struck the gavel one last time. "The witness Michael Hollowedan has no final words. The family is sentenced!" The congregation rumbled like a wave. Michael wanted to speak. "Stop!" he wanted to scream. I'm the guilty one. Take me! But his throat was sewn shut. The words were locked in a prison. The Pope approached, stroking Michael's hair. "It's hard, I know," he whispered, his voice both tender and cold. "But God is with you. Gratias agimus Deo." He led Michael from the pulpit, seating him at the front of the congregation. Whispers coiled around him like snakes, but the words were incomprehensible.
The man in black appeared on the church's railing, legs swinging as he sat. He grinned, but no one saw him. Michael's eyes locked onto him. Are you real? But there was no answer.
The judge, Pierre, suddenly rose at the pulpit. "I, PIERRE LUCCI, BY THE JUDGMENT GRANTED ME BY THE HOLY MOTHER, DECLARE YOU, MARIA AND ADAM ADERIA, GUILTY!" His voice thundered like a storm. "YOUR PUNISHMENT IS SANCTIONED BY MOTHER EARTH!" His eyes rolled back; his body entered a trance. The congregation shouted in unison:
Gratias agimus Deo! Gratias agimus Deo! Gratias agimus Deo!
Michael wanted to stop it, but his hands trembled. Tears streamed down his face. No, I'm the guilty one! But his voice wouldn't come. Shadows seeped from the church's corners—black, liquid, alive. Pierre's hands rose, and the shadows obeyed. The congregation watched in fear and awe. This was why they feared the Church. The shadows approached Maria and Adam. His mother's eyes locked onto Michael's—pleading, sorrowful, but for a moment, loving. Adam still stared at the stained glass, empty, broken.
The shadows seeped into their bodies. Maria's face lit up for a moment, then faded. Adam's shoulders slumped. Life drained from their eyes. The shadows tore free, and in that instant, both collapsed like puppets, kneeling. They screamed in unison:
Domine, me ignosce! Domine, me ignosce! Domine, me ignosce!
"Lord, forgive me!" Their voices were inhuman—hoarse, mechanical, soulless. Michael's heart clenched in his chest. His tears dried on his cheeks. I'm the guilty one.
Pierre summoned the shadows with a gesture. The black wave swallowed Maria and Adam. Their screams rose briefly, then fell silent. When the shadows receded, only a handful of ash remained. The church sank into silence. Michael sat frozen at the pulpit. The man in black, still grinning on the railing, whispered, "Poor Michea," but the sound echoed only in Michael's mind. "You always lose."
The Holy Mother Church stood like the stone tomb of Valeria Kapitali. The last rays of light filtering through the stained-glass windows cast blood-red shadows on the floor. The scent of incense thickened the air; the silence was sharp as a blade. Michael Hollowedan sat alone on a wooden pew in the center of the church. His blond hair glimmered like a pale flame in the flickering candlelight. The bruises on his face—marks of his father's slaps—still stung, but the hatred in his eyes had given way to a hollow void. The ashes, all that remained of Maria and Adam Aderia, had been swept from the floor. But Michael didn't know what to do. His mind was a swamp—guilt, anger, fear, all swirling together.
Pope Pierre Lucci stood at a side pulpit. Holy books, bound in leather, were spread across the table; his fingers gently turned their yellowed pages. He seemed to be giving Michael time, but his eyes occasionally flicked toward the boy—kind, yet calculating. Michael didn't look up. His mind drifted back to the execution. The shadows tearing from his mother's and father's bodies, the life fading from their eyes… Domine, me ignosce. That cry still echoed in his ears. And the man in black—that mocking, sinister presence. What were they? His mind flickered to a garden of red flowers: wilting roses, a porcelain woman. Why did this happen to me?
The man in black was still perched on the church's upper railing, swinging his legs. The air had begun to darken; the candlelight reflected in his round glasses. Michael locked eyes with him. His heart raced in his chest. For the first time, he found courage. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling but resolute.
The man grinned slowly. He leapt from the railing to the floor, his steps making no sound on the stone—as if he were a shadow. He approached Michael, leaning in. His hand reached for the boy's forehead, cold but familiar. "You are me," he said, his voice a whisper, yet like a thunderclap. Michael's breath caught. What does he mean, you are me? "STOP! DON'T GO! ANSWER ME!" he screamed, but the man vanished like smoke. His eyes sank into darkness. His body collapsed. He slept.
The dream enveloped him like mist. Michael was somewhere else. Inside a tin box, moving along a road—a car, perhaps a train. The air smelled of diesel; the windows were fogged. A small child, clutching a crumpled piece of paper, ran to a man. Michael reached for the paper, but his hands sliced through air. He wanted to recognize the child, but the face was blurred. He wanted to see the man, but his shadow dissolved like mist. The man hoisted the child onto his shoulders, his voice warm and cheerful: "Well done, Michael! Your drawing is beautiful. Let's eat something, then show it to your mom, okay?"
The child shouted, "Yay!" his laughter piercing the dream. But in that moment, everything faded. The dream cracked like a mirror.
When Michael opened his eyes, he was staring at the candles hanging from the church's ceiling. The flames flickered; shadows danced on the walls. Who am I? His mind teetered on the edge of an abyss. He couldn't remember his childhood—no faces, no voices. But in the dream, there was a child with his name. Happy. Loved. Was that me? Yet there was another Michael in this world—one who wilted red flowers, summoned shadows, a cursed child. Which one am I? The man in black's words echoed in his mind: You are me. His heart tightened in his chest.
Pope Pierre rose from the pulpit. As if noticing Michael's gaze, he approached slowly. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, rubbing it gently. "Michael," he said, his voice soft as a hymn, but with steel beneath. "What you've been through is hard, I know. But you must accept it. They brought you harm, not kindness. Would a mother who loves her son stay silent through such cruelty? Would a father who loves his son raise a hand against him?"
The questions hung in the air. Michael wanted to answer, but the words knotted in his throat. His father's slaps, his mother's cowardly eyes—hatred still burned within him. But the dream… that happy child… Were they right, or am I? His mind sank like a swamp. A single question slipped from his lips: "Those shadows… what were they?"
Pierre suddenly smiled. His eyes glinted in the candlelight—kind, yet unsettling. "Would you like me to tell you a story?" he said, his voice holding a secret. He closed the holy book, clasping his hands together.