The afternoon sun was beginning its descent, and with it, an everyday miracle occurred in the cathedral. The slanting rays pierced the great stained-glass window as if heaven itself had decided to filter through sacred crystals. The upper rosette—that geometric flower of blue, green, and red petals—came to life, projecting onto the marble floor a garden of light that existed nowhere else in the earthly world.
Rafael looked up, mesmerized.
The five female figures in the lower panels seemed to move in the darkness. Their flowing dresses—ultramarine blue, royal purple, emerald green—fluttered without the need for wind. Were they virgins? Saints? Or simply allegories of virtues that men tried in vain to imitate? Their serene faces, illuminated from within by the play of colors, had that calm possessed only by those who have seen the face of God and not gone mad.
One detail shocked him: all their hands were clasped in prayer, but one of them—the one on the central panel, dressed in red and gold—had her fingers slightly open, as if at any moment she might release her prayers and extend them toward him.
The air smelled of incense and melted wax, but also of something older: the dust of centuries, of glass that had trapped the light of a thousand sunsets just like this one.
The other priests remained immersed in their devotions, oblivious to the spectacle. For them, perhaps, this was merely an ornament in the house of God. But Raphael knew the truth:
The stained-glass windows were not there for men to look out of.
They were there for God to look inward.
And in that instant, bathed in deep reds and celestial blues, Rafael felt that for the first time in a long time, Someone was seeing him.
Rafael held the Bible in his hands, but his fingers didn't feel the weight of the sacred book. It could have been empty, it could have been air. Because in that moment, only the angel existed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he observed his brother priests: heads bowed, lips moving in synchronized murmurs, fingers gliding over the verses as if the words could be felt. All reading, all praying. No one looking.
And there, in the stained-glass window above the altar, He shone.
The angel occupied almost the entire crystal space, her purple robe so deep it seemed woven from the twilight itself. The golden details at her waist glittered like newborn constellations. But it was the wings that stopped Raphael's breath: an explosion of iridescent color where purple fused with pink, blue with red, as if each feather had been dipped in the rainbow before dawn.
"Why am I the only one who sees it?" Raphael thought.
The angel's outstretched hands held nothing, yet seemed to offer everything. There was no solemnity in his gesture, only immense tenderness, like that of a father waiting for his child to stumble in order to catch him before he falls.
The three rosettes above his head spun silently (Rafael swore they spun), displaying designs that changed if you stared at them too long: first flowers, then faces, then words in a forgotten language.
Below, the glass vines seemed to grow upward, as if trying to reach the angel. Or perhaps they were its roots.
A ray of sunlight filtered through at that moment, and something extraordinary happened: the angel's wings moved. It wasn't a trick of the light (Rafael knew that), it was a genuine fluttering, as real as the heartbeat in his own veins.
In the front pew, a priest coughed. The sound brought Rafael out of his trance. He looked back down at his open Bible, right at Psalm 91: "For he will give his angels charge over you..."
When he looked up again, the angel was still there. But now her eyes were open. And she was looking directly at him.
Raphael didn't need faith to believe. He just needed to keep seeing.
Rafael slowly turned his head toward the other stained-glass window, and it was as if a sharp blade of light pierced his eyes.
There, majestic and imposing, the archangel wielded a sword of golden fire that seemed to cut through the air itself. His maroon robes billowed like dark flames, and his blond hair—as golden as the weapon he wielded—fallen over his shoulders like a blanket of heavenly wheat. But it was his eyes that chilled Raphael's blood: that fierce, focused gaze that didn't judge... but looked straight into the heart.
"For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword..." (Hebrews 4:12)
The verse echoed in his mind like the sound of a bell. He didn't remember it; he felt it, as if the letters had been burned into his chest. The sword in the stained-glass window wasn't just a symbol: it was the Word itself, sharp, shining, capable of separating soul from spirit, intention from action.
The angel's wings, in shades of sunset and gold, vibrated with restrained energy. Each feather resembled a tongue of fire suspended in time. The background of the stained-glass window swirled in blue and purple spirals, like a cosmic whirlwind around that central sun that perhaps represented the eye of God.
Raphael narrowed his eyes. For an instant, he swore he saw the sword move, its golden tip pointing straight at his heart. Not with threat, but with a silent question: Are you ready to be divided? For the Truth to cut to the very core of you?
The other priests remained absorbed in their Bibles, oblivious to the drama of light and shadow unfolding above their heads. But Rafael couldn't tear his eyes away.
Because he understood something terrible and beautiful:
God didn't just speak in whispers.
Sometimes He did so with the edge of a sword.
The cathedral walls appear to have a smooth, polished texture, similar to marble or a similar stone. The columns have a rougher texture, with sculpted details.
The marble floor has a polished, glossy texture.
The wooden pews have a smooth, even texture.
The atmosphere is solemn, majestic, and spiritual. The light entering through the tall windows creates a dramatic effect, illuminating the main altar and sculptures.
The combination of colors and the richness .