Vantias pushed the heavy, ancient door of the church open with both hands. A low growl echoed from the old hinges as it gave way, and immediately the cool, damp air inside, carrying the scent of wax and aged wood, enveloped him.
The candlelight danced across the church, yet deep shadows still clung to the altar and the pillars. The wooden pews, neatly aligned, stood silent and empty—except for the first row, where Aldrin sat as always, eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer. The cross in his hand reflected the flickering light, scattering tiny glimmers across his face.
Vantias' footsteps echoed across the cold stone floor, each one seeming to converse with the silence itself. With careful, deliberate movement, he sat down beside Aldrin. The heavy silence was filled only by the beating of his own heart and the faint murmur of the candles.
Aldrin kept his eyes closed, though he could sense Vantias' presence lingering in the air. Something in the church, within the shifting shadows and scattered light, seemed to wait—expecting something to happen.
After several minutes of weighty silence, Vantias finally broke it, his voice soft and trembling:
"You once told me… to try forgiving myself, and to help others. That maybe, one day, it would help me forgive myself… Do you remember?"
Aldrin paused for a moment, as if pulling a memory out of the past, and then answered gently, with quiet certainty:
"Yes. I remember it well."
Vantias lowered his head, a shadow of sorrow and doubt crossing his face. His words slipped out through clenched teeth:
"A week ago… the choice I made almost cost one of my friends their life. I try to make everyone think I'm fine, but in truth… I was afraid."
Aldrin drew a deep breath. Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned to face Vantias. His gaze was heavy, yet filled with understanding. His voice was calm, steady:
"Your greatest weakness is sinking too deep into darkness and blaming yourself for everything… But at the same time, your greatest strength is how deeply you care for your friends and family."
The candlelight danced across both their faces, shadows playing among the pillars. For a moment, the silence was thick, full of unspoken words and hidden feelings, as though the church itself were breathing, waiting for a decision or a revelation.
Aldrin narrowed his eyes slightly, a flicker of doubt and questioning passing through his gaze. In a half-whisper he asked:
"Do you think I have no struggles in my life, Vantias? Do you think I've never doubted the path I walk?"
Vantias hesitated. His voice, filled with uncertainty, echoed in the cold air of the church:
"The truth is… I think you're human, like the rest of us. Even a psychologist has struggles of their own, even if they know the consequences of their choices."
Aldrin sighed, the sound filling the heavy silence of the church. Then, slowly, he rose from the wooden pew and walked toward the altar. Candlelight flickered across his robes, the long shadows of the pillars weaving him into the mingling of light and darkness.
His voice, soft but heavy with experience and the bitterness of memory, carried through the space:
"Once, I met an old man… he made me see the world from another angle. And in that new perspective, there was a moment when I doubted my purpose."
Vantias' voice, curious and faintly trembling, followed him:
"What did he say to you?"
Aldrin gave a faint smile—one carrying both bitterness and irony. The memory still seemed to stir his heart. He sat upon the stone platform, folding his hands together, and spoke in a quiet, deep tone:
"Many years ago, I met an old man who had lived his life without faith. One day, as I was speaking to him of heaven, he gave me a bitter smile and looked at me with mocking eyes:
'This world is soaked in sin—even in its holiest places. And heaven? Look closer, and you'll see the same sins there too, only with different names.
They give you thousands of wives… is that not greed?
Feasts you can eat without hunger… is that not gluttony?
The blessed see themselves above the angels… is that not pride?
There are ranks and degrees… does that not breed envy?
Countless houris without end… what is that but lust?
You despise the damned and the devil… is that not wrath?
And at last, you live forever, with no end, no purpose… is that not sloth?
Even an angel in heaven can feel pride and hatred…'
And then the old man laughed—a bitter laugh, as if the pain and sorrow of the world had been poured into it. His gaze was a challenge, as though he wanted to shatter my faith, strip my purpose bare, and make hope itself meaningless."
Aldrin breathed deeply and lowered his head. For a moment, the silence of the church was filled only with the trembling of the flames. Beside him, Vantias felt that this memory carried not only Aldrin's past but also the darkness and questions every soul—perhaps even an angel in human form—must wrestle with.
Vantias furrowed his brow slightly, his voice calm but curious:
"And what did you say to him?"
Aldrin met Vantias' gaze, holding it in silence, as though caught between memory and thought, time itself pausing. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, heavy with reflection and a trace of bitterness:
"I could not answer him… My mind could argue against it, but something deep within me made me doubt… What if he was right? Not only about heaven, but about the world itself…"
His voice echoed in the quiet of the church, among the flickering flames and the tall shadows of the pillars:
"Every action, every choice made by any being, can be seen as good or bad depending on where you stand. And no one—no being—can ever see or control all the consequences."
Vantias leaned forward slightly, his eyes wandering between the shifting shadows and candlelight, as though struggling to digest the weight of that truth. Silence filled the church once more—but this time it was not empty. It was heavy, alive with questions, and with the sense of responsibility binding them both together.