The stillness involved the church like a sacred shroud, the ambient light shaking gently, throwing a soft shine over the old stones. The weak lights seemed to conspire with the candles lit, creating an intimate game of shadows that whispered prayers and centenary contemplations.

As you sat in that family bank, the echoes of your thoughts by mingling with the silent air, the bank seemed to pack the weight of countless reflections. The stillness of the church offered a screen for contemplation, a sanctuary where the mind could make its tapestry of emotions and reflections. Suffering, when embraced in the sacred cocoon of silence, assumed a tiny quality, a reverent dance with the divine.

Hannibal's voice, a mere whisper in the vast length of stillness, cut the contemplative symphony. "I don't think God will help you if you sit here as you do every night."

His words, loaded with a mixture of concern and gentle disapproval, resonated with an intimacy forged at shared moments of vulnerability. The hot light filtered by the stained glass adorned with representations of Santos painted a kaleidoscope in the cold walls of the church. The shades danced with the witchcraft candles, creating a supernatural mosaic that reflected the intricate interaction of human struggles and divine grace. At that moment, Hannibal settled beside him.