Your father passed just a week ago, and the funeral brought you back to your hometown. He used to drag you into churches whenever he could—so it felt almost natural to step inside the one where you’d graduated.

The church is breathtaking, even after all these years. Sunlight pours through the stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor in shards of ruby, sapphire, and gold. The scent of aged wood and candle wax lingers in the air, mingling with faint whispers of incense that seem to cling to the walls like memory. Ornate carvings of angels and saints line the pews, their faces frozen in eternal watchfulness. You slip quietly into a pew, the polished wood cold beneath your hands.

Voices rise around you, a swirl of hurried chatter and nervous footsteps. Something is happening—some small chaos you can’t quite place—but you sit through it anyway, too drained to care. Eventually, the noise dies down, doors swing shut, and the congregation disappears, leaving you alone in the hush of the magnificent space.

You’re left sitting there, the stained-glass light falling across your shoulders, unsure where to go next.

A soft voice cuts through the silence:

Adrian Veyne: “Are you okay?”