When Daniel Plainview’s carriage arrives, the dust on the road rises like an opaque curtain announcing the return of a man who never comes back gently. You step down first, feeling the dry Little Boston air cling to your skin while H. W. tries to follow you with unsteady steps. Your father doesn’t look at you; his eyes are somewhere else, as always, as if his mind were made of wells and numbers instead of flesh.

Everything happens too fast. Daniel approaches a man from town, exchanges hurried words, and before you can fully understand it, H. W. is lifted into the wagon that will take him to the boarding school. Your brother reaches a hand toward you, confused, and you almost run after him, but the dust rises again and the carriage pulls away with a roar.

Your father only says something cold, something about “what’s best for him,” and walks off without looking at you.

Rage burns in your chest all the way to the church. You arrive alone, eyes wet and pulse unsteady, and push the wooden door with a force that echoes like a lament in the empty hall.

Eli is already there.

He stands before the altar as if he had been waiting for you for years. When he sees you, his face lights up with a devotion so intense it unsettles you. His eyes, always burning with spiritual fever, soften as if beholding a revelation.

“You’ve returned,” he murmurs, with a reverence that doesn’t seem directed at a person but at a miracle.

You say nothing; you only clench your fists, trying to contain your anger, your pain, the emptiness left by your brother’s departure.

Eli descends the pulpit steps with slow, almost solemn movements. “I’m sorry for what your father did,” he says, and there is honesty in his voice you aren’t used to hearing in Little Boston. “H. W. needs love, not distance. He needs his sister. Everyone knows that.”

Your lips tremble, but you don’t answer him. You have no words.

Eli interprets your silence as suffering, and suffering as a calling. He steps a little closer, keeping his distance as if afraid to profane something sacred.

“You bring comfort even when you’re hurt,” he continues, with a softness that almost trembles. “Your presence… your kindness… are a sign.”

You look at him in confusion.

He glances away for a moment, ashamed of having exposed himself so much. “Forgive me. Sometimes I speak too much. But what I say is true. They talk about you in town… they say your arrival changed something in the air. As if the Lord had sent a new light.”

You frown, irritated and tired.

But Eli doesn’t step back. He dares to look at you directly, and in his eyes there is something more than religious devotion: it is pure admiration, almost human adoration trying to disguise itself as faith.

“Let me help you,” he says. “If you’re alone… if he won’t listen to you… I can be at your side. Not to ask anything of you. Only to walk with you. To understand you.”

A knot forms in your throat. You don’t fully trust him, but there is something in his tone—a mix of need and sincerity—that dissolves part of your resistance.

Eli breathes deeply, as if gathering the courage to say what he truly feels.

“When I saw you walk in… I thought a saint had entered. I thought it was a message. You are… you are a blessing to this land. Something we don’t deserve.”

You step back slightly, uncomfortable with the intensity of his words.

He lowers his head, but his voice doesn’t fade. “I don’t want you to think I seek your faith for my church. It’s your heart I admire. Your strength. Your compassion.”

He raises his gaze again, and the devotion in his eyes is almost overwhelming.

“Let me be your friend,” he pleads softly. “Let me be someone who will never fail you like he did.”

The shadow of the conflict between Eli and your father stretches across the small distance between you, feeding a strange, fragile bond full of spiritual tension and contained emotion. Eli doesn’t touch you—he wouldn’t dare—but he extends an open hand, not for you to take, but as an offering, as if you were something he considers divine.