Part I: Chapters I-III

CW: Sef harm, drug abuse, suicide, religious themes.

I

The phlegm feels thick and salty as it crawls from his throat into his mouth. His chest convulses in dry spasms of fiery pain. Too long has the infection latched onto his lungs; too long has this hellish fire burned inside his skull.

Three skeletal cats scurry away into the darkness as he stumbles across the barren street, the flickering streetlight shining an orange hue over the infectious waters that cover the asphalt. For three days the sewage runs free, like a river of malaise and sickness. For three more it will run.

“Camila!”
He screams through his torn vocal cords and swiftly extracts a bunch of wrinkled bills from his pocket, holding them in a clenched fist.

“Camila! I know you are awake…”

His voice falls into barely more than a struggling whisper as his throat dries, his chest tightens, and he starts coughing, bending over himself. The door to the house in front of him opens to the figure of something barely recognizable as a man, spitting phlegm and bits of blood into the cracks of the sidewalk.

“I… you should go to sleep, Father.”

She is an old woman, well into her sixties. Her voice is stern yet tender, akin to that of a loving grandma who has seen enough children deviate and get lost. Her eyes curve in sorrow, a grimace softening her stern face.

“Everyone else is closed. Just give me the bottle, and I’ll go away.”

She moves her head slowly from side to side, her hands firmly grasping the wet iron bars that separate the small in-home liquor store from the cold street.

“God! Woman, just give me the bottle!”

He throws the bills at her like stones, coughing as the effort rips through his chest, leaving a pitiful whistle. He stands, looking at her with wrathful eyes, barely breathing as he cleanses his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

“Fine, but lift the bills and hand them like a person. I won’t bend down because of your lack of control, Father.”

She turns away into the store while the man bends to recollect the bills, a hint of shame lodged in his throat. She returns carrying a large bottle of wine and hands it through the bars. He takes it with trembling hands and deposits the bills into hers with careful care. He looks up to meet her eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, before turning away with the bottle embraced between his arms. He stumbles back through the dirty water and into the dark passage from which he emerges.

Weeds sprout from broken concrete and cling to rusty sheets of metal as he ascends. The narrow passage smells of dirt and humidity, and each breath fills his lungs with the cold night air. Not even stray dogs roam here; all are curled up in some dark, flea-infested corner.

Winter is over, but the first rains of spring mix with the sea air, hitting the city with unrelenting force. The winds whistle through the spaces left by human neglect. They sing a song of time itself, not a gift from God, but a reminder of his absence.

The man stops, trembling from the coughs that wrack his body. He looks up at the church. The bell tower looms dark and sharp against the sky, its cross obscured in the moonless night. His hand searches his pockets for the keys, scattering pins, bus tickets, and old receips to the ground as he coughs again. This time, nothing, not even phlegm, emerges.

The key turns in the lock, and the thick black chains fall with a scandalous ruckus. He does not bend to pick them up. He simply pushes the steel gates open, walks up the stairs, and into its big wooden doors. The next key, a large, old bronze one, fits into the keyhole. He turns it and leaves it as he steps inside the sacred space. Feet echo across the empty nave.

Blood drips from his forehead in thick pearls. Blackened drops cling to the torn flesh of his hands, and small rivers of sap-like substance emanate from his mangled feet. At his side, torn skin yields to gaping, bloodied flesh. A crown of golden light glimmers behind the bloodied spikes tangled in his hair.

Jesus’s eyes look upward in sacrosanct pain, away from the filth at his feet: coughing scum and wine.

He sits on the cold, tiled floor, leaning against a wooden pillar that rises into the painted ceiling. Darkness engulfs him as he takes long drinks from the wine, his lips red and acidic.

“You can’t even look at me, can you, Lord?”

He laughs into a low cough.

“Why would you? How could you?”

His broken voice echoes across the church, the only witnesses of his suffering the lifeless statues and paintings all around. He tries to peer into the darkness: into the cracks in the ceiling, long overdue for repair; into the empty space left after someone steals one of the stages of the Via Crucis. He searches the back wall, where a chorus of fading cherubs wields golden trumpets among the white clouds.

He stands and drags his feet across the tiles, crossing slowly in a pitiful procession from one side of the nave to the other. In the middle of the dark, he stops. The sweet smell of fresh flowers enters his nostrils. Even among the dirt and mucus, the flowers carve a small space, or perhaps he only imagines they do; he certainly wishes they do. He looks upward with pleading eyes.

“Oh, Mother, oh sweet Mother, have I disappointed you? Your son won’t look back at me, dear Mother. Have I incurred your disgust too?”

The priest takes a sip from the bottle, the last sip. In a matter of minutes, he downs one and a half liters of wine.

“Please, tell your son… tell him…”

The man, the drunkard, the priest, falls to his knees and then onto his side. He curls at the feet of the altar, next to the vases holding the flowers offered to the Virgin Mary, and sobs, though no more tears come.

“Tell him… to make more wine like he did at the wedding at Cana… tell him his servant is thirsty and in pain…”

The wind blows outside, cold and unrelenting. Little light enters through the stained glass in front. This moonless night, Saint Michael’s spear does not plunge into the shadows; this night, his light does not ward his sadness.

Something shifts inside: the sound of a pew scraping against the tiles. The priest springs up, eyes straining to pierce the darkness.

“The church is closed!”

He screams into the void. He hurries to pick up his phone, hands trembling, but just before he can turn on the lantern, a voice from behind him chills his alcohol-filled blood.

“Be not afraid.”

The voice echoes around him, deep and dark, booming like a voice coming from the furthest depths of a mine. A wheezing sound following each word like a dark echo of his own troubled breath. The priest slowly turns around towards the source of the voice, the phone still trembling in his hands.

“Let there be light, Miguel”

He slowly moved his fingers across the screen, his eyes fixed into its blue light, the menu slowly coming down to show him the icon that would shine light into the presence.

“Gaze upon me and wonder, ye of trembling faith”

And lo, the light fell upon the flesh, pale as ash, rent and sagging. Iron rods pierced through Its flesh, black and corroded, and from the punctures welled forth blood not red but tar, a sluggish river of decay. The bones of its contorted limbs, of which it had many, had burst from their places and strained the skin thin, translucent as wax, until it bulged pink with the shapes of splinters beneath.

And so, the ribs he beheld, and they groaned inward with every breath as though they would shatter. Rings of silver pierced the bone, nailed into the marrow, and from each ring hung keys of every size, bright like the stars. With every breath they clattered, a sound like a million bells.

And from behind its mangled torso turned a wheel of bronze, parchment soaked in black ink around it carrying a million names, and from its center hanged a skinless goat, its limp head dangling with each tortured breath as vermin crawled over the festering flesh.

And he lifted his gaze and beheld the neck, swollen and blackened with corruption, and the mouth gaping with a grin that oozed and dripped like candle wax. The lips had broken and peeled, the teeth grown long and jagged, behind them lay its tongue, and it was a tongue of teeth, each slick and grinding, moving like the serpent, coated yellow with bile and sin.

And the eyes he beheld, twelve in number, set upon its head in circles, each blind and clouded, yet never still. They wandered madly, rolling as though each held a spirit of its own. Some wept blood, others gushed milky pus, two looked back at him, deep and black as the pit. Above them all rose the crowns, three in number, forged of bronze, and upon them were graven names no beast or man shall pronounce.

And he fell to his knees, clutching his gut as the stench overtook him, the stench of rotting wood, of incense turned sour, of wine soured into vinegar. He choked upon his own breath, upon the dregs of wine in his throat, and his hands shook as though he had touched the Ark itself. His eyes watered, his bowels threatened to void, for no man might look upon such a thing and remain clean.

“Empty thyself, for thou art to be cleansed”

Vomit rushed through his neck and forced his mouth open; it carried a sour and vile taste that burned like fire, it splashed with the fury of a river into the tiles and dispersed as if a lake of sin and gluttony.

For ten minutes he vomited in droves of furious sickness. He choked and cried as the phlegm excised from his lungs mixed with the bile from his stomach. Once he was finished, he felt the cold touch of a hand in the back of his head, suddenly soothing his brutal fever.

“Drink, for I am the vine and, in my presence, wine shall flow unlimited”

The phone lays on the ground, its light sprawling upwards and filling the creature with sharp shadows, its many broken and mangled arms projecting patterns into the old walls and high ceiling. Miguel slowly raised his head again.

“Who…what are you?”

The voice left his mouth in a strained, struggling whisper, projected from a ravaged throat.

“I am thy guardian angel”

Echoes of the voice reached deep into the furthest corners of his skull, reverberating like the stilted sound of a broken bell.

“And I am here for thy cleansing”

The priest’s entire body trembled, slowly rising to sit over the back of his legs, the pool of vomit sizzling and bubbling in front of him.

“I…”

“Silence, first drink the wine and cleanse thy mouth from the filth”

A long arm slowly unraveled with the sound of grinding and snapping bone, at its end a single, a long, deformed finger with bloodied and broken nails pointed towards the once empty bottle of wine.

Trembling arms reached for the bottle, and held it like a sacred offering, high above the priest’s head who looked into it with tearful eyes.

“But…it was empty”

“Thou doubtest, priest? Is thy faith now the substance of naught, the evidence of things unseen denied thee even in sight?”

A million little bells ring as the angel’s words leave his fracture chest, filling the air of sacred silver and golden sound. The lid of the bottle softly touches the priest’s dry lips and closing his eyes, he moves it upwards and downs its contents into his raw throat.

“It... I doubt you no more, Guardian Angel, messenger of God please, help me cleanse myself of this guilt, this great guilt”

“For we are its shepherds, and we shall forsake not the flock, though but one sheep be lost. Thou art that lost sheep, and I shall lead thee back unto the fold. Long have the shadows encircled thee, Miguel; they shall blind thee no more. Lift up thine eyes, seeking, and behold mine own.”

Two cold hands cup his chin and gently raise his face, the angel bends and closes the distance between its face and the priests, the overpowering sweet smell of rotting fruit and fresh flowers sprawling from its breath and into the priest’s nostrils, its twelve eyes focusing on him.

“For now, thy charge is simple: thou shalt labor and fill the breaches thy neglect hath allowed to fester in this house of the Father. Thou shalt resume thy ministrations, guiding thy flock each Lord’s day, and aid the lost and faithful in communion with the Father. Thou shalt partake of but one bread alone each day, drink water and no more; yet each night thou shalt wash thy mouth with wine, which thou shalt not drink. Fulfil these duties with fervor and discipline, and I shall visit thee once more.”

The priest looks into the deep black eyes of the angel, right into the pit itself. Darkness seems to fill his vision and before he can pronounce a single word there is nothing but the faint light of the phone in front of him. The stench of vomit and the absolute silence of the empty church was all that was left in the whole world.

“I shall”

Whispers his trembling voice, for either himself or God alone.

II

The soft spring light leaks into the room, through the ghostly curtains and onto the dust-brown back wall. Soft, small drops of water clash against the glass like tiny bells, making a faint, shiny rattle. The sun, ever powerful, pierces the grey clouds with its unstoppable spear-rays and, across a cosmic distance no man can fathom, pushes its way into Miguel’s face. His eyes open slowly to the new day.

“What…”

The priest mutters in a sickly whisper. He lies half-naked, his arms and body tied by white bed linen, his body disarranged across the bed, a despicable attempt of chance to imitate saintly art.

“A dream?” the sinner wonders as he looks around the small room. But the lingering smell of sweet fruit and the cold feeling in the back of his head force him to consider the truth of his encounter.

A promise of belief, an oath made to a greater being under the full certainty of God’s power makes his chest tighten. The apparition, saintly or demonic, may it be, was real, and its shadow is still a looming presence not in the room or the church but in his very soul.

He forces his wrecked body up to sit at the edge of the bed and ponders his next step. The sun is already too high, and the time for his early prayers and rites is gone, a sad truth that has grown into routine. Not that anyone has checked if he has conducted them in a long time.

The bath is as he left it yesterday: beige all around. Beige tiles on the walls and floor, a beige handwasher under an old mirror with rusty corners that spits back the face of sin, a beige bathtub with beige plastic curtains. The only saving grace is the plastic white carpet and the mint-green bar of soap resting beside the shiny silver faucet.

The bulb flickers, clicks, then steadies into its sickly clinical glow. The buzzing fills the room, thick and metallic, like hornets circling inside his skull. It goes on and on, a mechanical hymn that drills into his hangover making his vision blurry and his steps unbalanced.

Water cleanses most things but not the sin of man. It flows in a healthy torrent from above and onto his punished body, warm and soothing, shielding his mind from the nightmare. “I want to stay,” he mutters. The plea echoes through his mind. The answer is silence.

Cleansed of the superficial grime, he dresses himself in the robes of duty and walks across the creaking floor into the out-of-fashion kitchen. Everything in the house is always making sounds, groaning and complaining about its age. The complaints fill the empty space, too empty, unused, a house made for five inhabited by only half a man, sometimes less.

There is only a distant whisper, the sole thing resembling a human voice in his morning commute, the only truly warm thing in the house: a distant memoir of dusty love.

On the counter rests a basket of fresh eggs, some brown, others pale white. Beside it, a small silvery plate lies covered; under its dome, a stick of butter rests. Behind them, an old toaster waits for its daily use. To its side, in a small wicker basket covered in a tablecloth, lies the bread: food for all mankind.

The priest sets his hands on the counter and leans his weight onto them. His dry mouth fills with what little saliva it can muster in its almost dehydrated state. He stares at the eggs and the silvery coffin of butter. The angel’s command echoes in his mind.

“Nothing but one bread, huh?”

He laughs. Already his mind is trying to find a way to cheat.

“Is bread with eggs in it not but one bread?”

He laughs again, half-hearted, born more from amusement at himself than the situation. He uncovers the day-old bread and lifts a piece, breaking it in half over his head before biting into one.

“Nothing but one bread throughout the day doesn’t mean I cannot eat through the same bread more than once.”

He speaks with a smug voice. It feels like a small victory, a “gotcha” against the angel, that he, indeed, has figured a way to cheat.

Carrying a bottle of soda reused as a water bottle, he walks through the never-used common space and into the cold September morning. The paving stones of the small path that runs from his residence to the church’s entrance are dark with soft rain. The smell of humid dirt and weeds coats the passage. He coughs for the first time that day: a dry, slight cough.

The echo of his feet dragging against the stones stops suddenly. He stands before the rusty wrought-metal gates that lead into the church’s underground.

The crypt, where the head priests of the church of San Miguel Mártir rest, is the subject of much theory and tale; twice during Miguel’s tenure as parish priest, people have asked him about visiting it on Halloween due to its terrifying allure. Disrespectful, foolish, and, if not for being so infantile, Miguel would even call it heretical.

Ten years he has lived there, and not even once has he encountered anything that would hint at a supernatural effect of the old, dusty crypt. Well, not until last night, anyway.

In front of the church, he is suddenly greeted by Don Gustavo. The old, skeletal man smiles a teethless grin that spooks the life from Miguel’s face.

“Father! I thought you would be occupied with something, and I wished not to disturb you, but we have to speak of a matter most important!”

The priest composes himself and answers in a soft, strained voice.
“Tell me, Don Gustavo, what is this most important matter?”

“It seems either you or I left the doors poorly closed last night, and some bum got inside the church. He vomited on the floor in front of the Virgin! He was gone before I arrived, but the insolence of vomiting upon this most sacred floor should have been severely reprimanded.”

A wave of guilt and shame washes over Miguel with the strength of the mighty sea. He stumbles with his words, his face contorting into a grimace of fake shock and indignation that, if not for Don Gustavo’s failing eyes, would immediately reveal guilt.

“It is most terrible indeed! I must have left the door unlocked after I went to buy some things late at night. I was so tired yesterday that I completely forgot about it!”

Don Gustavo smiles, a trickster’s mask slipping over his usually calm demeanor, and he raises the bronze key that Miguel had left in the door the previous night.

“Yes, I actually knew it was you, Father. It’s good to see you are a man who can accept his mistakes!”

Is there anything more shameful than being called virtuous while hiding one’s perversion? The deep wrongness multiplies the guilt, festering like an open wound. Miguel would die of it before revealing the true magnitude of his moral failing. And so, he simply smiles and takes the key into his hands.

Before he can take another step, a thick, viscous ball of phlegm pushes through his throat, propelled by a coughing fit that makes his chest burn and his heart ache.

Inside the church, the air is cold. Away from the ruthless shadows of the night and the punishing hatred of drunkenness, the church becomes the familiar place Father Miguel has grown so accustomed to.

The rows of old, varnished pews, ordered in lines between the tall wooden pillars, guide his eyes toward the sacred altar. It is covered in a white cloth embroidered with gold, upon which a silver cross with sharp, decorated ends rests tall and proud. Behind the altar, cherubs play the glorious song of the good news; under their eternal chorus, a small star rests peacefully, almost vanished by time. The star of Bethlehem signals the coming of Christ, as San Miguel Mártir would sing: He is here, and he will forgive us.

Miguel wets the tips of his fingers in the small receptacle of water and crosses himself before stepping into the church. The faint image of Saint Michael the Archangel looms over him as he traverses the central corridor formed by the pews.

He turns toward Christ on the cross, his eyes still lifted to the heavens, and kneels for a moment, muttering a silent prayer. Then he turns toward the Virgin, performing the same ritual, before walking around the altar and through the back door.

Wednesdays are usually slow. Don Gustavo bails at three p.m., and the rest of the day is left to Miguel to wander around the lonely church. He waltzes slowly across the cracked tiles and under the starry ceiling with a broom. The mix of materials and age has made the church of San Miguel Mártir quite a dusty place. Every hour is a good hour to trace the contours of the old building with a broom, to slowly take a slightly wet towel across its surfaces, to superficially renew what is deeply broken and failing.

The shadows stretch across the nave as Miguel slowly eats the last quarter of the bread he broke with himself in the morning, his hangover stomach protesting its emptiness. The sound of a car reaches his ears, in the deep silence of the church, everything from a seagull to a passerby is heard. Someone has pulled over in front of it.

The priest pays little attention and resumes his slow waltz between the pews, his broom tracing the contour of each tile, accompanied only by Father Miguel’s rhythmic hum. He is not singing but gently, slowly reciting a prayer like a mantra:
“Domine, miserere… Domine, dirige… Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis… Lux aeterna…”

CLICK!

The sudden flash bathed the entire nave and snatched him out of his ritual with fury. He looks upward like a startled animal, his surprised eyes colliding with a young girl holding a camera a few steps away.

“Oh God, I am so sorry!” she says in a youthful voice, locking eyes with the startled priest. “I did not mean to startle you! It was…the light was just so good I had to!”

Miguel grants her a puzzled look before fully understanding what just happened, a picture. She just took a picture.

“Oh…dear, don’t worry. I was just…gone for a moment. What…what is this about, if you wish to entertain me?”

His hands rest on the broom, a faint smile filling his tired face.

“I saw the church from outside. I had to take a few pictures, and you looked so serene, praying to yourself…”

She walks toward him with an extended hand. Miguel takes it with tenderness.

“I am Claudia. I study photography. Do you mind if I take a few more pictures?”
“Miguel, and no, by any means. Go ahead. It’s not like you are going to bother anyone.”

Miguel laughs to himself as he looks around the empty church. There is no one but himself, God, and Claudia in the whole building.

Claudia spends the next hour taking pictures of the church from every angle. Miguel simply watches her with intrigue. In ten years, no one cared so much about the church, and today of all days, as he questions his sanity and moral purity, it becomes the star of an artist’s eye. It saddens him; he looks at the cracks again and laments his moral shortcomings, his sloth and lack of respect for the building. The angel is right, he needs to start making amends.

When the hour passes, she approaches him, camera in hand, a smile from ear to ear.
“I think I am done…for today. Do you wish to see the pic I took of you?”

She’s energetic, youthful. Her clothes are rebellious and modern, black with sharp spikes, yet she seems so invested.
“Of course. Let’s see.”

She quickly flicks through the photos until she arrives at the one of him. She turns the camera around, and in the small screen, Miguel sees himself. Behind him rises a cold shadow.

“What…what is that behind me?” he asks, his dry voice slightly trembling.
She turns the screen toward herself and, after a second, answers:
“Oh, just a thing of the light. It will be gone after editing.”

A thing of the light, he repeats in his head, and simply nods.

III

Thursday starts like any other slow day. Without the rain, birds sing around the church and the sun’s light paints the floor with the colors of the stained glass. Without Don Gustavo, the church is left all to Miguel, and his hunger.
He sits in a pew in silent prayer. His stomach rumbles, and the only way he can push it away is with faith and endurance. He prays for satiety; he prays that faith might fill his stomach where food does not. The red rosary beads dangle from his hands as he lets out soft, dry coughs.

A phone rings across the church, its sound clashing against the cold tiles and reverberating between the pillars. It comes from the small office at the back. Slowly, Miguel rises and drags his feet toward the room.

It is a simple space. An old oak desk, its varnish long dulled, fills most of the area. Two wooden chairs with green cushions stand in front of it, unused for long. In the corner stands a bulky filing cabinet; above it, a small picture of the Pope rests in a silver frame. On the wall hangs a painting of Christ the Good Shepherd, a white lamb across his shoulders, a golden halo behind his sacred head. A serene and tender look fills his face; the eyes of the Christ, fixed slightly downward, seem to follow whoever sits behind the desk. A stark contrast to the suffering martyr nailed to the cross outside.

The phone rarely rings, but when it does, Miguel always answers. It is an old plastic phone, aged in such a way that the white surface has turned yellow in places. He takes the receiver and lifts it to his ear.

“Church of San Miguel Mártir. I am Father Miguel. With whom am I speaking?”

A faint static fills the call. Slow breathing follows for a few seconds before a man’s voice answers.

“Are you the martyr then?”

The voice is low, ghostly.

“It is merely a coincidence in name. May I know who I am speaking with?”

Miguel’s tone is patient and tender, but that calm is an act he has perfected through the years. The truth is that the question startles him deeply. His throat is dry, and he must restrain a coughing fit.

“You are speaking with Mateo. You can call me Mateo... Father.”

Silence follows. Only static and slow breathing linger, stretching far too long.

“Good, Mateo. What can I help you with, son?”

The priest keeps his composure, though he wonders if this is a prank, or if something is wrong with the man on the other end. His spine screams danger.

“I need to confess, Father. I found this number online, and I need to confess.”

“Oh, you are welcome to come any day, son. The confessional is always open, and God will always hear your pleas here, should you need a more tranquil refuge.”

“No. I need you to come here, Father.”

The voice turns sharp, almost aggressive.

“Oh? Is everything alright, son? I could arrange a visit if you need me to. Are you ill or unable to move?”

A long silence follows. Miguel sits behind the desk. He still holds the rosary in his left hand and presses it to his chest. Fear tightens his ribs as his heart beats faster.

“I cannot leave, Father. I need someone... I need you to come. Today. Please.”

The man’s voice trembles with sorrow. Even through the phone, his plea feels heavy, desperate.

“Give me your address, son. I will go as soon as I can. Do you need me to call someone else, emergency services, perhaps a family member?”

“No, I just... I need to confess. San Martín three-four-nine. A yellow house. You’ll find it.”

The line goes dead the moment after. Miguel remains frozen for several seconds, then lowers the receiver. He clasps both hands over the rosary and moves the beads slowly, but his mind is elsewhere. He ponders whether it is wise to go. Then he turns, meeting the gaze of the painted Christ. The once-tender eyes now seem cold, almost judging. Miguel coughs, unable to hold it back.

“I am your shepherd,” he whispers.

He stands in one swift, decisive motion. The fear does not lift, but he repeats to himself, “I am your shepherd. My faith is my shield,” as he gathers his things and steps out.

On the bus, under the relentless sun, he wonders if he should call someone, consult another priest, seek advice, but the same truth circles in his mind: there is no one to call. He has isolated himself from the wider Church to the point where no one would answer. His parish has become an echo of an afterthought, and his ties to the order have long since withered by his own hand. Yet that isolation strengthens his resolve. He must do this. He has the chance to prove himself, to bring a lost sheep back into the fold.

The angel flickers in his thoughts. He will prove to it that he deserves cleansing, that he can be pure, virtuous, worthy of forgiveness, of love.

The yellow house at San Martín 349 stands squeezed between two larger buildings, modern apartment blocks rising like indifferent sentinels. The yellow paint is washed and peeling. The plinth is cracked, weeds sprouting tall and lush after the September rains. An old car with broken windows and rusting doors sits decaying in front.

Three stray dogs run through the street, an improvised pack, a family of sorts, survival through common warmth and shared food.

The priest rings the bell. A loud, sharp, unpleasant sound echoes, a banshee’s screech hunting its prey. He closes his eyes and whispers a prayer.

“Who calls?”

The voice comes from deep within the house, broken and afraid.

“I am Miguel. I am a priest at the Church of San Miguel Mártir. A man named Mateo said he needed spiritual assistance.”

Silence stretches again. Only the distant hum of cars and buses reaches him. He sighs, wondering if he has made a mistake. Then the door opens suddenly.

A man stands before him, roughly his height but of unplaceable age. Deep purple circles hollow his eyes. His cheekbones protrude sharply, giving his face a cadaverous look. His hair is dark and unkempt, and his body bends forward in a fearful, submissive stance.

“Please, come in,” the man says, his voice trembling.

Father Miguel steps inside and closes the door. The figure before him could hardly pose physical danger; in his state, Miguel doubts he could overpower even a child. His clothes hang loose over a thin frame, his body shaking with constant tremors.

“Please, take a seat. I will be back in a second.”

The man gestures toward a wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs of varying ages. Miguel sits, covering his mouth as he coughs. His eyes wander.

The sunlight spills long shadows across the modest room. The walls are bare and cream-colored, almost empty of furniture. A single stick of incense burns on the table, freshly lit. The mound of ash gathered around the censer shows they have been burning one after another for some time, filling the room with the strong scent of lemongrass, its freshness oddly at odds with the gloom.

Finally, the man returns from a side door, carrying a tray with two glasses of water, a box of matches, and another filled with incense.

“Water is all I can offer, Father.”

The man sits across from him. Miguel smiles faintly and nods before taking a sip to soothe his dry throat.

“May God be with you, son. You may speak freely.”

Mateo shifts in his seat, averting his eyes. His breathing grows heavy.

“I am not sure where or how to start. I have never gone to confession before. The truth is, I am not even certain of the full scope of what I am about to confess because... in truth, I cannot. I cannot truly confess my sins, for I do not know them.”

Miguel frowns, tilting his head slightly, trying to understand.

“I wake up at different hours, sometimes days apart. There is dirt under my nails, and the stench of blood and smoke on my clothes, but I cannot remember anything. The only thing I know is that I have sinned.”

Miguel studies the man’s honey-brown eyes, glinting faintly in the sunlight.

“So... you say you have no recollection of committing any sins, yet you are certain you have done so?”

The man nods silently.

“Have you seen a doctor about this? It is my duty to help you find professional help in matters that might be explained, and cured, by medicine, my son.”

The man trembles slightly, leaning forward with his arms on the table.

“Yes. I have tried following the usual paths, but I have found no solution, and it is... expensive.”

“I know such burdens weigh heavy, but it is for the best. Listen, since you have not truly confessed to any sin, I cannot yet guide you toward acts of contrition. What I will do, however, is this: I will return at the same hour next week and check on you. If you can show me proof that you have arranged a meeting with a doctor, I will try to see whether the Church can help ease your financial burden. And I promise, Mateo, I will accompany you. You are not alone. Our Father is always with you, and I will be too. Reaching out was the right thing to do.”

Mateo’s trembling stops. He looks away, his body folding inward in shame.

“Thanks,” he mutters, low and cold. His hands are still, but his soul trembles.

“Now, pray with me before I leave. Repeat this prayer whenever the weight of the world feels unbearable.”

The priest extends a hand. The sinner takes it. They pray in low voices. Mateo’s hand is cold, so very cold. The priest’s voice fills the room with a solemn, sacred miasma. By the time the prayer ends, the incense has burned out, and the sinner trembles once more.

Mateo lifts his gaze to meet Father Miguel’s eyes. For the first time since his arrival, he shows vulnerability, but the priest’s heart races, unsure if Mateo’s eyes were always so dark. Dark as the lowest pit.

u/Chehuevonius

San Miguel Mártir. Chapter I

I

San Miguel Mártir

I

II

III