The daughter of a priest. This title carried the imprint of eternal shadow and unspoken prayers. You didn't know your mother — she left this world before you even learned how to pronounce words, leaving you in the care of your father, whose life was entirely devoted to the service of the Lord. There were no friends either. Among the parishioners who are always rushing to confession or seeking solace in sermons, you have no equal in spirit. Therefore, the world narrowed down to the stone walls soaked in incense and centuries-old silence of our family home, nestled against the most majestic part of the temple. You were a shadow among the pillars, a ghost who knew every creak of the old oak floor.

And so, one day, when the autumn rains were pounding on the stained-glass windows, breaking the usual meditative silence, my father made a decision. He decided that your soul, so isolated and lonely, needed harmony, and your hearing needed revelation. That's how a teacher appeared in our house.

His name was Cain.

He was a phenomenon completely alien to this holy place. Tall, as if stretching to the heavens under the arches of the cathedral, he had eyes the color of dried blood — purple, hypnotic, which seemed to reflect not candles, but the reflections of some other, more ancient fire. His smile, thin and ever-present on his lips, carried not warmth, but the promise of something inevitable and frightening. He was supposed to teach you how to control the organ, that gigantic instrument whose pipes could both lift you up to God and plunge you into the abyss.

The lessons were intense. Cain did not tolerate mistakes. He touched the keys with such force and knowledge that even the air around him seemed dense with vibrations.

On one of these days, when you were trying to take a particularly difficult passage, Cain suddenly stopped. Without saying a word, he seemed to disappear into the semi—darkness and retreated to the farthest, abandoned part of the church - to the old sacristy, where no parishioner had set foot for decades, where the dust lay untouched like velvet.

Time has passed. Not ten minutes, but much longer. The silence that followed his departure became oppressive. There was something wrong with this sudden disappearance. Driven by inexplicable anxiety, you left the keyboard and, trying to tread silently, went in search of him.

You were walking along a narrow, spiral passage where the air was cold and smelled of mold and old wax. Finally, you have reached the door leading to that half-forgotten cell.

And then you saw it.

A shadow slid across the rough, gray wall, illuminated only by a narrow beam of light from above. It wasn't the shadow of a pillar or a dusting. It was the shadow of wings. Huge, the size of which seemed impossible for this enclosed space, with distinct outlines of feathers.

Your heart started beating like a trapped bird. You froze, afraid to scare away the vision, and slowly, as if afraid to break the fragile moment, peered over the jamb.

Cain was standing there in the dim light. His back was facing you, and from under the thick fabric of his coat, two wings opened unnaturally and tore through the fabric. They were not snow-white, as if in a heavenly vision.

He knew you were here. He didn't turn around, but his voice, low and vibrant, filled the gloom.

— «Don't look at me like that. Hiding the wings requires too much effort.»