The church stood at the highest rise of the village, not because faith demanded elevation, but because stone learned long ago that height commanded obedience.
Its walls were thick and pitted, the color of old bones left too long in sun and rain. Lichen crept along the lower stones like slow scripture, unread but persistent. The bell tower leaned a little to the east, as though it had once tried to leave and failed. When the wind moved through its cracks, it made a sound like breath held too long.
The boy climbed the hill alone.
Morning had not yet warmed itself. Mist clung to the ground, threading through gravestones and crooked markers bearing names no one remembered speaking aloud anymore. He passed them quietly, as if afraid the dead might still be listening. His feet were cold, his sleeves too short, but he did not hurry. There was nowhere he needed to be other than where the bell would soon tell him to stand.
Inside, the church smelled of wax, damp wool, and ancient dust. The scent wrapped itself around him, heavy and intimate, like a hand resting on the back of his neck. Candles burned low along the walls, their flames wavering as if unsure they should continue. Above, beams crossed one another in dark, rib-like patterns, holding up a ceiling that felt too far away to be trusted.
The villagers filed in behind him—boots scraping stone, whispered greetings, the rustle of cloth. He slipped into his usual place near the back, close enough to hear, far enough to remain unseen. That was how he preferred the world: audible, but distant.
The priest arrived without ceremony.
He was an old man with a narrow face and hands that shook only when he was not speaking. His voice, when it came, was steady—trained by years of repetition. Words came out of him the way water came out of wells: deep, practiced, and never questioned.
"Each soul," the priest began, "is placed where it belongs."
The boy watched a candle gutter beside the altar, its wick bending, blackening, then straightening again. He wondered how much choice the flame had in its own persistence.
The priest spoke of divine design, of suffering as instruction, of pain as a language God used when gentler words failed. He spoke of parents as vessels of authority, of obedience as a form of love, of silence as virtue.
The boy listened carefully.
He always did.
"Some are born to abundance," the priest continued. "Others to hardship. This is not injustice. This is balance."
Balance, the boy thought, must be a word used by those who did not live under its weight.
The sermon went on, unfolding like a tapestry the boy had seen too many times to admire. He knew where each thread would lead. Sin. Redemption. Acceptance. The comfort of believing that nothing was accidental.
Yet every word felt strangely hollow, as though it had been spoken once too often, like a prayer worn thin by too many mouths.
The priest's gaze swept across the congregation, pausing—just briefly—on the boy.
"You are not forgotten," the priest said, as if responding to something unsaid. "Even those who feel unseen are counted."
The boy lowered his eyes, not in reverence, but habit.
He wondered if God, if such a thing truly listened, would recognize him without being told where to look.
After the service, the villagers lingered in small knots of conversation. News passed hands like bread—whose cow had gone lame, whose child had taken ill, whose crops had failed. The boy slipped past them, as quiet as smoke.
The priest stopped him near the door.
"Child," he said, placing a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. The touch was not unkind, but it carried the weight of expectation. "You attend often. You listen closely."
"Yes," the boy replied.
"Do you understand what you hear?"
The question was not meant to be answered honestly.
"I try," the boy said instead.
The priest smiled, satisfied. "That is enough. Faith grows with patience."
The boy nodded.
What he did not say was that patience had already hollowed him out. That understanding was not something he lacked, but something that failed to stay. That the words spoken inside these walls never quite fit the shape of his days.
Outside, the light had changed. The mist had thinned, revealing the village below in muted browns and golds—roofs like worn shields, paths like old scars. The fields stretched beyond, wide and indifferent.
He sat on the low stone wall beside the churchyard and watched the villagers descend the hill, their backs bent under lives they would not question aloud.
The bell rang again, marking nothing in particular.
He looked up at the sky, pale now, the stars erased by morning. He missed them already.
"If there is a purpose," he thought, "it is very quiet."
No answer came.
But the silence did not feel empty. It felt… observant. As though something vast was watching without judgment, without instruction.
He stood and brushed the dust from his clothes.
The church behind him remained solid, unmoving, certain of itself.
The sky ahead was wide, unresolved, and patient.
He chose the sky.