The early 1900s. A city gasps for air in the chaos of economic collapse.Streets crammed with people and motorcars.Dust. Smoke. Hunger.Shops half-open.Street vendors shout their wares — fruits, bolts of fabric, fresh fish from the bay.A crooked sign swings above a door:
POLICE STATION
A two-story wooden house.Peeling walls, cracked windows.Inside — a waiting room, crooked chairs, the smell of sweat clinging to the air.Daniel Crisco, sixteen, sits with his eyes fixed on the floor.Clean-shaven face, cap tilted just so, dark blue shirt, brown trousers.His hands twist together. Officers pass in and out, muttering in low voices.A door at the far end opens with a slow, grating creak. A deep voice calls from inside.
— Crisco. In here.
Daniel rises slowly, walks with cautious steps.The room is bare.One table. Two chairs facing each other.
He sits.
Opposite him, a man in his forties with a thick black beard, eyes dark and unblinking.
— My name's Johan Palanchi, the man says. They gave me your name, but I want you to confirm it.
— Daniel Crisco, officer.
— Good. That's right.
Daniel swallows hard, fingers locking nervously over his knees.
— Did I… do something wrong, officer?
— No, not at all. You're only here to answer a few questions.
Johan pauses, lets the silence stretch.
— The priest, I'm told, spoke with you.
— Yes. He asked me to cooperate with you.
Palanchi gives the faintest smile.
— A good piece of advice, boy.
From his coat pocket, Johan pulls a small notebook. He flips through it unhurriedly.
— Says here you're an altar boy. Assist the priest, is that right?
— Yes, sir. Father Marcos is in charge. I'm the one who helps the most — the others just come on Sundays.
— Thinking of becoming a priest yourself?
Daniel gives a shy smile.
— I don't know. I like helping. But as for religion… I've still got a lot to learn.
Palanchi leans forward slightly.
— A boy living in the church must have his reasons. Don't you care about your youth? Parties? Girls?
Daniel hesitates.
— I think I'm a normal young man.
— That's not what your classmates say. Nor the boys your age.
— How do you know that?
— You just confirmed it yourself, Johan says evenly. It's my job to find what people don't say out loud.
Daniel's gaze drops. Confusion flickers in his eyes.
— Are you sure I'm not in trouble?
No answer. The officer shifts topics.
— Are you the priest's favorite altar boy?
— I don't know. He trusts me. I've never let him down. I'm the one who stays late, if needed.
Johan studies him for a long moment.
— And that loyalty took you to an exorcism.
Daniel stiffens instantly, spine straightening.
— Usually Father goes with another priest. But that night was different. He came by my house, said he needed my help. My parents let me go. On the way, I found out we were headed to the Valencia house.
— You know them?
— Yes. A devout family. Never miss Mass. Always there.
— Anything strange about them?
Daniel's mind flashes to her — brown eyes, pale skin, modest dress. Something about her presence unsettled him, though he couldn't name it. A girl who caught his attention.
— No… nothing strange. A normal family.
Johan narrows his eyes.
— Come now, Daniel. Your eyes say you're in love.
Daniel shifts uncomfortably. Says nothing.
— That night, the officer continues, you and the priest went to the house. He entered the girl's room — the one supposedly possessed. The parents were in the sitting room, the brothers in their rooms.
— I only helped carry some things. Then I stayed at the door. Sat on the floor. Waited about an hour.
— You see what happened?
— The girl was lying on her back. Very pale. But Father wouldn't let me stay. Sent me outside.
— And during that hour?
— I heard him praying… then the girl screaming. But not like she was in pain.
— Sad?
— More like… like someone was comforting her.
Palanchi frowns.
— In a real exorcism, lights flicker. Doors shake. Sulfur fills the air. You hear shrieks. Supernatural things.
— I swear, none of that happened.
The man stands, pacing slowly around the table. He stops in front of Daniel.
— The girl murdered her parents.
Daniel freezes.
— The neighbor got in. Found her with a knife. The same one she used to slit her parents' and brothers' throats. He chased her with his shotgun. She ran to the creek. He shot her in the back. According to him, she fell into the water… and the current took her.
Johan's voice turns low, heavy.
— We found bodies downstream. One might be hers — but they were unrecognizable. Something in that creek eats the dead.
Daniel is pale. He can barely hold the officer's gaze.
— Did you ever speak with her? Anything at all?
— No… nothing. I only looked at her during Mass. Do you think she really did all that?
— It's under investigation.
The officer pockets his notebook and heads to the door.
— You may go.
Daniel steps back into the city — the vendors shouting, the honk of car horns, distant voices.
But he is not the same boy.
Years Later… The Road to LimeStone.
A bus rolled along a lonely road, the last traces of the city far behind.The world outside the window was all dry hills, skeletal shrubs, and dead trees.The heat pressed down like a suffocating blanket.Inside, the bus was nearly empty. he dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, eyes fixed on the horizon.The bus hissed to a stop in a small, faded town.The few remaining passengers stepped off without a word.Daniel, a simple young man, black hair, black eyes, clean face. Wearing a long sleeve white shirt, black pants and shoes.
Daniel stayed put.
From the driver's seat, the bus driver called back, watching him through the rearview mirror.
— Friend… after this, there's nothing. Just a half-built town. You sure you're not lost?
Daniel reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded slip of paper, read it, and replied without looking up:
— Limestone. I was told this bus goes there.
— That's right, the driver said. Last stop.
— You know the place? Daniel asked.
— Only in passing. If I get there at night, I wait till dawn before leaving. It's a place trying to grow, but always behind schedule.
— A town still under construction?
— Yep. They set up a police post a few days ago, but I'd bet it's empty like the rest. You a cop?
Daniel gave a faint smile.
— Not at all. Just passing through. I've got some donations for the church.
The driver's mouth twitched into a teasing smirk in the mirror.
— Government can't send a priest, so they send you, eh?
He let out a loud, echoing laugh that filled the empty bus.
— Twenty minutes more. Good luck… though I guess you Christians aren't scared of danger, right?
Daniel managed a small, reluctant smile.
Thirty minutes later, the bus stopped in front of a splintered wooden bench.
No sign. No people. No shade.
Just sun and dust.
Daniel stepped off with his small, battered black suitcase.The town looked half-asleep — closed shops, wooden buildings lined along a dirt path.The driver leaned out, calling over the rumble of the engine:
— Don't judge by first impressions! I told you, the town's still in the making. Not for lack of materials — for lack of people.
— So there's a decent number of residents?
— Sure! Doesn't mean they were waiting for you, he replied, laughing.
The bus roared off, leaving a cloud of dust that hung in the hot air.Daniel walked on, passing faded signs: Jewelry, Upholstery, Shoemaker, Furniture, Café, Bar, Hotel.Across the street, some buildings had no name at all.He unfolded his paper again, checked the address.At the edge of town, the road curved right, leading behind the row of shops.There it was — a two-story wooden house painted blue, with white shutters.The paint looked fresh, as if someone had tried to breathe life into the place.Beside it, a covered well.Farther off, a small wooden shed with a sign: Latrine.
The front door was ajar.Inside — six benches, three on each side of a narrow aisle that led to a small platform with three steps.Daniel walked up slowly, scanning the room.A faint smile appeared — everything was as it should be.Behind the platform, a door opened to a steep wooden staircase.He climbed to the second floor.A plain room: wooden bed with no sheets, no pillows.
A single chair and table.A round window let in the golden light of late afternoon.Daniel set his suitcase on the bed but didn't open it.He lay back, using it as a pillow, and closed his eyes — like a man finally home.When he came downstairs, his steps echoed in the empty church hall.
A woman was sitting on one of the benches.White, in her sixties.A black veil over neatly combed hair, starched white blouse, black skirt to the knees.Shined low-heeled shoes.Her eyes followed Daniel like she had known him all her life.
Daniel stopped.Then walked toward her slowly, as if approaching someone of authority.
— Good afternoon ma'am. You must be Martha.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she looked him up and down, expression unreadable.
— Do you have a jacket?
Daniel blinked.
— Excuse me?
— A suit jacket. You'll need one. Don't worry about the tie, but we have our customs here — and anyone who wants to belong must follow the rules.
Daniel glanced down at his own clothes, confused.
— I'm sorry… Gerónimo didn't mention anything about that.
— I'm surprised. He knows our rules well. But no matter — when he returns, we'll speak again. Gerónimo is an upright man. At the moment, he's away seeking business for the town.
— Do you know when he'll be back?
Martha's gaze sharpened.
— That's his concern. He'll return when he's meant to.
— Of course. My apologies.
She gave a brief nod.
— I understand you need some supplies. I'm here to serve you.
Daniel tried to soften the air with a smile.
— Yes… I left the donations upstairs. Father Marcos sends his best to this new house of God.
Her smile was automatic, almost mechanical.
— We're grateful the good Father Marcos wishes to contribute to a growing town.
Daniel checked his pocket watch.
— Well, ma'am, it's been a pleasure. My bus should be here soon.
Martha's brow lifted.
— And where are you going?
— Back home. I've done my part.
Suspicion flickered in her eyes.
— Gerónimo said you'd be staying a few days. Said you weren't working right now and had free time.
Daniel looked down, uneasy.
— That's true… the factory closed. But I have my plans, my life in the city. The Father never told me I'd be staying.
The back door creaked open.
A tall man entered.
Black beard, no mustache.
Dark suit and hat, like a figure out of another century.
His eyes were sharp, yet warm.
— Greetings. You must be Daniel. Marcos speaks highly of you — says you're his prophet.
They shook hands firmly.
— And he speaks well of you, Daniel replied.
— Of course. He's my uncle.
Before they could continue, Martha stepped forward, arms crossed.
— The young man's already on his way back Gerónimo.
— But you've just arrived my son. According to the Father, you were to stay a few days.
— Yes, well… I wasn't aware of that.
Gerónimo reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded letter.
— Marcos wrote this. Says you're a man of faith, always ready to serve, and that you'd gladly stay a few days to help us.
Daniel read it in silence.
His jaw tightened.
Finally, he handed it back.
— Of course… it would be a pleasure to stay.
Gerónimo's face lit up.
— Praise be to our Creator! Come boy — Limestone deserve a proper tour. You'll see you've made the right choice.
The sun burned overhead as Gerónimo led Daniel out into the street.The ground was dry, the dust rising in lazy swirls with every step.
Daniel noticed the man's boots — tall, polished, practical — the kind worn by someone who expects to walk far.
— As you can see, Gerónimo began, sweeping his arm toward the horizon, we still follow the Amish traditions. Everyone lives apart, on their own land, with their own farms.
They passed the last row of buildings.From here, the town dissolved into open earth and scattered wooden frames that would someday become houses.
— We made a deal with the government, Gerónimo continued. To build a commercial town, with markets, shops… everything a growing place needs. We manage it ourselves. The government only gives us the infrastructure and legal recognition.
— And there are rules? Daniel asked.
— Always. Everyone follows them, even us.
They climbed a small hill. At the top, Gerónimo pointed into the distance.
— That's where we live.
Daniel turned his head, following the line of the man's finger.Behind another hill to the right, a cluster of rooftops could just be seen.
— And over there, Gerónimo said, motioning left, is the humanitarian project.
Daniel's brow furrowed.
— So you own a town… with everything your people usually reject?
Gerónimo laughed softly, without stopping his stride.
— The world changes boy. Many of mine don't like it, but my family sees the need. This project is about balance. The trouble is… no one wants to start over here. But we're not giving up.
Daniel's voice was steady, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
— So… you want to control the growth of a city for your own benefit.
Gerónimo chuckled again.
— The plan is for people to pay us instead of the government. The government still gets their cut.
They crested the hill and looked down at a scene of hammering and sawdust — Amish carpenters at work, assembling new homes.
— The key, Gerónimo said, is change: living without rent.
Daniel drew in a slow breath. From here, the division was clear — the road slicing between two worlds.
— I see… the city and the road split the two sides. To the right, your people and their rules. To the left, the future commercial town.
Gerónimo clapped him on the back.
— Exactly. You understand the vision.
Daniel's gaze shifted to a few older buildings mixed in with the new.
— This place already existed, didn't it?
— Yes. Abandoned town. We bought it from the government. Too much unrest before — settlers couldn't live in peace. There were also the Indians, roaming the area.
Daniel stiffened slightly, scanning the horizon.
— Do they still come around?
Gerónimo grinned.
— No. Those days are gone. This isn't the Wild West anymore.
He laughed — deep, booming.Daniel joined in, but his laugh was thin, forced.They began walking again.
Daniel finally asked,
— How can I help while I'm here?
Gerónimo stopped, removed his hat, and tucked it under his arm.
From his coat pocket, he produced a heavy ring of keys.
— With so many projects, I've been neglecting my duties as leader. I have to address some concerns from my people. I'll be in my territory for several days. Visitors will come. You greet them. If they're merchants, give them one of the empty houses. Follow the procedure.
Daniel took the keys, their weight solid in his palm.
— And if I need to reach you?
— You don't. Gerónimo's voice was calm, but the words carried a rule, not a suggestion. Stay on the hill until someone calls you. I'll speak to my people about you. We've nothing against you… but outsiders are not common here.
— Understood.
— Martha will come every day with food. You'll stay in the house of faith. We've already built a new one in my territory.
Without warning, Gerónimo gave Daniel a quick, firm hug — the kind a man gives when the conversation is over — then turned and strode back up the hill.Daniel stood there alone.He looked down at the keys.Then up at the sky.
No answers there.Only the heat and the silence.Night had settled in, thick and heavy with heat that clung to the skin.Daniel stood by the small church's window, gazing at the stillness of the countryside.The sky was crystal clear, the stars sharp against the darkness.From here, he could see both hills — the Amish side, where a few faint lights still glowed, and the other, where the settlement homes lay in deep, unbroken black.In that darkness, a horse was making its slow way down the path.A lantern swung from the side of a wooden carriage, casting weak yellow light across the dirt.Daniel stepped away from the window and hurried downstairs.The sound stopped outside the temple.He caught voices — one of them was unmistakable: Martha's, issuing brisk, clipped orders in her raspy tone.
The door creaked open.
She spotted Daniel standing on the platform.
— You going to preach, or are you going to help me? she barked, eyebrows drawn together.
Daniel jumped into action.He darted to the nearest bench, grabbed a basin and a sack, fumbling them into place.Then he stood still, waiting for her cue.Martha eyed him, her gaze sweeping him head to toe.
— You're a strange young man… she said flatly. But Marcos speaks well of you. Anything I should know?
Daniel dropped his gaze.
— I… I'm sorry. I'm not good with people. I get nervous… feel like I'm going to mess everything up.
Her expression didn't soften. She simply studied him, weighing the words.
— According to Marcos, you work in a factory. You're a good son. You're helpful. Not much of a social life. That already makes you one of us. Sometimes it's better to be different than to be just like everyone else.
Daniel's lips twitched into a shy smile — but when he saw her face hadn't changed, the smile faded, replaced by a careful seriousness.
Martha tilted her head.
— Did they drop you when you were born? she asked suddenly.
Daniel blinked.
— Did Father Marcos write that too?
Martha let out a loud laugh that bounced off the walls — but it was cut short by a dry cough.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
— Forget it. Stay in your world. But listen — in that corner there's soup and bread. And a suit jacket. Used to belong to one of the boys, but you can have it. Outside, there's a tank with water. Wash up.
— Thank you, Mrs. Martha. Really… Maybe tomorrow I'll be gone. I didn't bring much. No clothes, no books…
She arched a brow.
— You give me the impression you want to run out of here.
— I'm sorry, but I've got things to take care of…
— A girl?
— No, ma'am.
— Kids?
Daniel stiffened, uneasy.
— Not yet…
— Work to finish? Someone sick? Owe money? The police after you? A pet to feed?
He swallowed and shook his head.
— No, ma'am.
Martha's eyes narrowed, her look a mix of sternness and faint pity.
— Then a little fresh air won't kill you. Look at you — pale as flour and sweating through it. You look like you've got nothing to live for.
Daniel stared down at the floor. No reply.
— Marcos said that too.
His head snapped up, confused.
— Oh… I see.
Outside, footsteps paced back and forth.
Martha noticed.
— That's Palermo, she said, nodding toward the shadow of a short, stocky young man sitting on the ground. You could say he's like you.
Daniel frowned, trying to make out his face.
— Because he's quiet? Or respectful, like the letter said?
Martha didn't blink.
— Palermo is mentally slow.
Daniel glanced toward the window. The boy outside was idly poking at the dirt with a stick, completely oblivious to what was being said about him.
— I… are you sure?
— Tomorrow you've got work. Watch for visitors. Lock the door tight — no point inviting thieves, Martha said, turning on her heel.
— I'd rather stay with someone, Daniel murmured, almost too low to hear. In case there's an… unwanted visitor?
Martha froze mid-step. Slowly, she turned back.
— Did Gerónimo talk to you about the Indians?
Daniel said nothing.
— Believe me — there are worse things boy.
She started for the door again, but Daniel stepped in front of it, his hands trembling.
— What things? What could be worse than… the savages?
Her eyes sharpened at the word.
— You people… the kind that use words like "savages" without knowing. This place belongs to them. You hide behind newspaper ink to accuse what you don't understand. Now get out of the way — before Palermo hangs you up to dry like laundry.Martha pushed past him into the heavy night air.
Daniel shut the door quickly — his pulse quickening as he caught sight of a large, heavyset man standing at a distance, watching him in silence.