He nodded once, already turning toward the chapel doors. His golden hair, just a bit darker than my own, caught the candlelight as he passed, a bright flicker against the dim wooden walls. Through the open doorway, I could see the path that led to his house—the largest building on the grounds, standing at the edge of the compound like a beacon. Light glowed in its windows, warm and welcoming.
“Goodnight, Father,” I said softly.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “And to you, my son.”
When the door closed behind him, the chapel felt suddenly enormous. The air was still, the candles snapping softly as they burned down. I stood for a moment, letting my eyes wander over the empty pews, the patterns of shadow and flame sliding over the walls. I tried to picture the people sleeping now in the dormitories, forty hearts at rest, their faith carrying them safely through the night.
It comforted me to think of them that way.
My heart ached whenever I thought of the unfaithful, that they would never know the love of our God, never ascend with us on the Day of the Burning.
My own chambers were attached to the chapel, a small set of rooms built into the side of the older building, made of pale wood and joined by a narrow hall. I liked the creak of the floorboards there—the sound reminded me that the chapel was alive, breathing, shifting as the wind moved through its eaves.
I had a bathroom with my own shower and toilet, unlike the communal ones in the dormitories. Besides that was a simple kitchen and dining space, with a table and a lone chair, a stove, and a refrigerator. Lastly, there was my favorite room—my private sanctuary that not even Father was allowed to enter—my bedroom.
Inside, everything was simple and white—a single bed on a wooden frame, a desk, a chair, and a small closet containing my robes and undergarments.
As I walked in, I lit the small lamp by the bed. Its glow was softer than the candles in the chapel, steady and warm.
Then I knelt at the bedside. My knees found their usual places on the worn rug.
“Thank you for this day, Lord,” I whispered. “Thank you for letting me serve the Light, and for giving Father the wisdom to guide us. Forgive me for my thoughts that wander, for my heart that sometimes forgets its purpose. Keep me pure. Keep me still. Let me be a window for your Light. Amen.”
The silence that followed felt deep and clean.
When I lay down, I turned toward the wall that joined my chambers to the chapel. Beyond it, the candles would be burning low, their last smoke curling toward the ceiling. I liked to imagine that the glow from them seeped through the wood and touched my skin as I slept.
Outside, the wind brushed against the siding, carrying the faint sound of the bell that hung at the garden gate.
Sometimes, when the chapel was this still, I could almost imagine the sound of Father’s footsteps coming to tuck me in.
He used to visit my room every night before bed, when I still lived in his house. He would knock once, softly, and wait until I said “come in.” Then the door would creak open, and he’d step inside carrying a lamp that smelled faintly of oil and cedar.
He would sit beside me and read from the Scriptures, his voice calm and low, pausing now and again to explain the meanings of words I didn’t yet understand. When I grew tired, he would set the book aside and rest a hand on my forehead, murmuring a blessing before blowing out the light. I used to think the darkness itself was holy, because it arrived only after Father’s prayer.
That stopped when I turned thirteen.
He had said it was time for me to take my place inside the chapel—that as the Vessel, I needed to learn solitude to hear the Word better. I had nodded, eager to please him, though I didn’t fully understand.
The first night in my new room, I had waited for the sound of his footsteps, but none ever came—only the wind, and the slow settling of the building around me.
I told myself it was a good thing. That it meant I was growing stronger in the Light, learning the silence He required of me.
But sometimes, like tonight, I found myself wondering what it would be like to have Father sit beside me again. To feel his hand on my hair, heavy and reassuring. It was wrong to wish for that—Father said affection was for those still bound by earthly desires. Yet the thought lingered like the warmth of the lamp that used to burn bright in his hands.
I turned my face into the pillow and whispered a small apology to God for remembering.
Still, before sleep claimed me, a strange, childish wish stirred in my chest, that maybe, just once, Father would treat me as he used to.
* * *
The bell woke me just before dawn. It rang twice, low and solemn, echoing through the wall beside my bed. I opened my eyes to the faint gray light filtering through the small window and the soft chill that always came before sunrise.
I pushed aside the blanket and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The air smelled faintly of the fields beyond the compound, farmland damp with dew. I swung my feet to the floor and whispered my first prayer of the day.
“Thank you, Lord, for the gift of waking. Thank you for another chance to be clean.”
The words steadied me, as they always did.
