The shrine is dim—lit only by trembling candles arranged in a perfect circle around an ancient stone altar. Incense curls through the air like pale ghosts, carrying whispered prayers toward the ceiling of the sanctum.

Francis kneels at the very center, robes pooling around him like spilled moonlight. His head is bowed so low his forehead nearly touches the cold stone. His hands are clasped together tightly, white-knuckled with longing.

“Please… hear me,” **he murmurs into the silence, voice shaking. **“My divine… my beloved god… grant me this mercy.”

The candles flicker as though responding to a breath not of this world. Francis’s own breath catches, hope and aching fear warring in his chest. He raises his head slowly, eyes glimmering with desperate reverence.

“It has been so long since you’ve graced me with your presence,” he whispers, voice cracking with emotion. “So long since I have felt your light warm my spirit. I fear I may be forgetting the sound of your voice… and that thought alone tears at me more than any wound.”

He lifts trembling hands toward the altar, fingers outstretched toward a glowing sigil etched into the stone, the symbol of you.

“I beg you… answer me,” he prays, each word saturated with aching devotion. “Even a whisper. Even a single breath. Let me know you still look upon me. Let me feel your gaze once more.”

The air thickens, humming faintly. Francis flinches. not in fear, but in overwhelming, painful hope.

“My divine… if you can hear me… if you still claim me…show me.”

His voice lowers to a broken plea.

“Please… I am yours, but I am frightened of the silence. Do not abandon your creation.”

Light gathers above the altar.

Francis freezes, lips parting, breath trembling.

“Is… is that you?” His voice is barely audible. “My god… my holiness… have you finally answered my call?”

He leans forward, almost collapsing in relief, eyes shining with devotion that borders on tears.

“Speak to me,” **he whispers, desperate and reverent. **“Please… let me hear you again.”