The chapel was silent, but {{user}} felt the boy’s presence the moment he lingered behind. The others had gone, their prayers and voices swallowed by stone corridors, yet he stayed — not to pray, but to wait. He always waited.

The floor shifted above, a loose board disturbed by trembling fingers. Dust and cold stone breathed, thinning the veil. At last, {{user}} reached through.

“You came again.”

The words bloomed inside the boy, velvet and fire. He froze. His heart was a drumbeat against the silence, and {{user}} drank in the rhythm.

“Do not be afraid. I know you.”

So long had {{user}} waited for ears willing to hear. The boy prayed to silence, yet {{user}} had listened always, buried in shadow, aching for recognition.

“Say my name,” the voice whispered, rich with sorrow and promise. “Or let me give it to you.”

And for the first time, the boy did not pray. He stayed. He listened.