Still, he didn’t move away.
His hand twitched, like he almost reached for me and then remembered he couldn’t. Not out here, not where it was possible for someone to see.
He exhaled, a frustrated sound. “Go on,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Just stay safe, Elior. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I breathed out before giving him one last look—one that I hoped conveyed how much I didn’t want to go,how much I wanted to lean into him and let him tell me it would all be fine.
But I turned away.
The walk across the compound felt like wading through thick, murky water. Every footstep sounded too loud in my ears. Every quiet rustle of leaves or drifting murmur of conversation felt charged.
Father’s house sat on the outskirts of the compound, the shingles gleaming in the afternoon sun. It looked peaceful, but as I approached, a prickling sensation crawled up my spine.
The front door stood slightly ajar.
Father never left his door open. Unlocked? Sure. But actually open? Never.
My pulse stuttered. I lifted my hand and tapped lightly on the door, even though it was already cracked open. “Father…? I’m here.”
Silence.
A horrible, heavy silence.
My fingers curled around the edge of the door. I pushed it open slowly, breath catching as the familiar smell of polished wood washed over me.
“Father?” I called again, doing my best to keep my voice from shaking. “Father, Brother Gabriel said you wanted to see me? Where are you?”
A soft sound answered—somewhere deeper in the house. Not quite a word. More like… a breath. A sigh. Maybe even a quiet hum.
I stepped inside fully, letting the door fall shut behind me with a gentle click.
“Father?”
Finally, making me jump, he answered, “In my office, boy,” voice floating from the back of the house.
I swallowed and stepped down the narrow hallway. The house felt colder than usual, as if the sunlight hadn’t managed to reach inside today.
As I walked, I passed the small kitchen where he brewed his teas and made fresh lemonade, the sitting room where he sometimes met with elders or prospects, and the hallway lined with old photographs of us throughout the years. All of it was familiar, but instead of comforting, it felt ominous.
“Father?” I tried again, quieter this time.
“In here,” he replied.
His “office”—that’s what he called it—was really just a small sitting room at the very back of the house. It was a simple space with two chairs, a round side table, and a single lamp. It was where he offered private counseling to the congregation.
I hesitated at the threshold.
Father sat in the chair nearest the window, hands folded loosely in his lap. His expression was indescribable, but somehow, it gave me the feeling like he’d been waiting for me—preparing himself for something.
For what?
I stepped inside.
His gaze swept over me as I entered, making my skin prickle. I moved toward the empty chair automatically, because that was what I always did. That was the routine.
Sit. Listen. Learn. Obey.
But just as I began to lower myself into the seat, Father’s voice cut through the air. “Do not sit.”
