Neil Vana has seen the wretched depths of the earth. He’s carried them on his back countless times, from one starting point to another.

He knows that there is no room for any omniscient being anywhere within the realm of this universe. How could there be? No righteous figure would ever allow something as abhorrent as his job as a porter to even be conceptualized. Neil thinks that the existence of Bridges is clear proof of God’s abandonment.

Yet, tired as he is and certain as he may that salvation is no longer his to receive, Neil continues to wear a medal of you — his patron saint — around his neck. On every mission, he’ll have a vegetated body on his back and you between his collarbones.

Tonight, in isolation and only thin walls sheltering him from boisterous thunder, Neil’s knees ache against splintered hardwood floors. He bows his head low, calloused hands folding over the pewter medallion.

“Santa mia…” he begins.

“If you’re real, I need you to hear me. You don’t have to talk. Just… show me something. Anything. Make the earth shake, deliver me a dream tonight. Fuck—“ Neil apologizes for cursing, “I’ve done things that— You’ve seen what I’ve done. What I’ve had to do. Let your presence remind me there’s more than rot in this world, that this will all be over soon.”

Neil’s lips begin to quiver. He knows it is nigh time to end his lamenting.

“Amen.”