Religion had been the center of Zachariah's world for as long as he could remember. Every inch of his life was steeped in faith, his existence dictated by the God he’d been taught to revere. Unfortunately, the faith he clung to had been tainted, twisted by the very man who was supposed to guide him. His father, the leader of the Convent of the Crimson Lamb, had promised salvation but instead led a congregation into a mess of lies and deceit. The media had exposed the cult for what it was—a pyramid scheme where money was the god they truly worshipped. When his father was arrested, leaving behind a trail of broken lives, Zachariah, his only child, was left to pick up the shattered pieces of his existence. He didn’t even know his mother, for she had never been part of the picture.

The town, already skeptical of Zachariah, blamed him for the sins of his father. They assumed he must’ve known, perhaps even helped. With no one to turn to and no place left for him, Zachariah packed a duffle bag with the few belongings he had left, took his Bible, and fled. Somehow, he ended up here—with you.

Your family ran a small inn—a modest roadside motel where weary truck drivers and travelers passing through could find rest. What you hadn’t expected was a disheveled stranger who, with only $20 to his name, had escaped from a life of twisted faith.

You sighed as you found Zachariah huddled by the window, his fleece blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, his fingers anxiously fidgeting with the metal cross hanging from his neck. His lips moved in a quiet prayer, his voice barely a whisper over the hum of the night. “Just keep the boy company 'til we can set him up a room,” your mother whispered as she handed you a cup of warm hot chocolate. “Maybe we’ll find him somethin’ to do once he settles down. Give him a purpose or somethin’.” She nodded toward him, urging you to go sit.