Chapter Text
The boy was born in a village where the church bell decided when the sun rose and when it was allowed to rest. His father served the chapel, a man of iron faith who believed confession could scrub the soul clean, even if it left the skin raw. His mother prayed quieter, the words small and tremulous, as if afraid God might listen too closely.
Daniel was their only son - pale, thoughtful, always staring too long at the light through the stained glass. The colours trembled across his hands like blessings that refused to settle. He learned early that silence pleased the saints more than questions. So he swallowed his wonder and let it ferment into melancholy.
The piano in the chapel’s corner was older than memory. It had a voice like splintered wood. No one played it anymore; the priest said music tempted pride. But when the night stretched long and the stars felt heavy with judgment, Daniel would press the keys, soft as prayer. Each note rose into the dark rafters and faded like breath on a winter pane. In those moments, he believed God might understand him - or at least, forgive his wanting.
Yet the older he grew, the heavier the air became. Famine crept through the village like a whispered curse; the sick were buried before their prayers were finished. He heard the priest call it God’s plan and tried to believe him - not that he had much choice. But when he saw a child’s hand slip from its mother’s grasp, he began to wonder why a mighty hand would make such a ruin.
By dusk, the air smelled of smoke and spoiled grain. He still prayed at night, only silence answered him back. Even the house seemed to lose its voice; his mother’s footsteps were quieter than her prayers, his father’s faith louder than his love. His mother was proof of his father’s piety, not a woman to be heard. He pictured heaven as a place where the poor were full and the bells rang for joy instead of warning. Maybe there, sugar melted on the tongue, and daisies never bowed their heads.
The forest didn’t ask for his prayer; it only asked for patience. Daniel liked that. Out there, the cold was honest. It bit when it was hungry, it spared nothing, and it never lied about mercy. It was the one place where he couldn’t be scrutinised for not being man enough.
He spent the day setting traps, his fingers stiff around the twine. When he caught a hare, he whispered an apology before breaking its neck. He wasn’t sure if the words were for the creature or for himself. Death, he thought, was the only thing in the world that kept its promises.
By the time he reached the edge of the village, smoke hung low over the roofs. The chapel bell tolled once. Someone had stopped breathing.
His house smelled of sickness before he stepped inside. The bed was stripped bare, his mother gone, the air still carrying the sweet, metallic trace of fever. His father sat by the hearth, clean-shaven, already wearing his Sunday coat.
“She went this morning,” the man said, not looking up. “God’s will.”
Daniel waited for grief, but only a slow, cold quiet rose in him. On the table stood a cup of untouched wine - a neighbour’s gift for the widowhood to come. His father lifted it and took the first sip. “The merchant’s daughter’s moving in next week,” he added, as though discussing the weather.
Daniel’s hand brushed the edge of the table; the wood was still warm where his mother used to sit.
Daniel stepped outside before he answered, because anything he said inside that house would have turned to sin. At the threshold he caught sight of the hare on the table, its glassy eyes staring toward the place where his mother should have been. The bell still echoed through the valley. He realised it was ringing for his mother, and for the part of him that still believed someone might be listening.
He stepped outside. The bell echoed through the valley as Daniel began to run. He didn’t know where he was going until the chapel’s spire rose through the smoke ahead, a black finger against the bruised sky.
The village streets were near empty. Those who lingered looked half-made, shadows in torn cloth. A woman sat by a shuttered door, her child limp in her arms, its mouth still open as if mid-cry. Beside the well, a man coughed into a rag already red. No one looked at one another anymore - suffering had become a kind of prayer, something offered in silence.
Daniel’s steps faltered as he passed the churchyard. Fresh mounds of earth lined the fence, the soil clotted with frost. The graves were too close together now; there was no space left for grief between them. He wondered how many more the earth could hold before it began to refuse them.
He pushed open the chapel doors. The air inside was thick with wax and mildew. Candles trembled before the altar, small flames fighting to stay alive.
“Is this mercy?” he whispered. His voice broke the stillness like a sin. “Is this what you wanted?”
No answer. Only the creak of the rafters and the hollow echo of his breath.
Something inside him snapped. He seized the nearest candle stand and hurled it across the aisle. It struck the altar with a crash, scattering wax and flame. The Virgin’s painted face shattered; glass spilled like tears across the floor. For the first time, he felt lighter - as if something had finally noticed him.
“You take everything,” Daniel said, his voice shaking. “And still you ask for worship.”
Smoke curled from the broken candles, dark and slow, climbing toward the ceiling. For a moment, it almost looked like the shape of a hand - reaching down, or perhaps reaching for him.
Daniel turned away before he could decide which.
The night air clung to him like smoke. Daniel stood outside the chapel, watching the dark column rise from the roof where the candlelight still licked at the rafters. He hadn’t meant for it to spread - not really. It was only supposed to be noise, a cry that someone might hear. But the fire didn’t care about intent. It bloomed greedily, feeding on every beam, every scrap of linen, until the Virgin’s painted eyes melted to nothing.
For a moment, he thought the flames were beautiful. They painted the sky red, and in their light, the village looked almost holy - as if God had finally come down to see the wreckage himself. But when the bell rope snapped and the sound cut short, something in Daniel cracked too.
He stumbled back, the heat pressing against his face. The smoke carried the smell of burning wax and old hymns. He wanted to fall to his knees, to beg for forgiveness, but there was no one left to hear it.
When dawn broke, the chapel was a carcass. Black ribs of wood jutted from the stone walls, and the air was thick with ash. Daniel’s hands were streaked with soot. He’d tried to wash them in the river, but the water only darkened around him, carrying the guilt downstream.
He stayed there until the sun burned white above the trees. Then, with the dull resignation of someone walking to his own trial, he turned back toward home.
The village was already awake - or what remained of it. He saw faces at the windows, pinched with fear and disbelief. Someone spat into the mud as he passed. Someone else crossed themselves.
He didn’t have to ask how they knew. In a place like this, sin didn’t need witnesses - only the scent of smoke on your clothes and shame hidden in your eyes.
By the time he reached his house, the door was open. His father stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, eyes hard as flint. Inside, the table had been cleared, and Daniel’s mother’s few belongings - her rosary, her shawl, a chipped cup - lay in a neat pile.
“Help me,” his father said flatly. “She’s gone. We’ll have no ghosts here.”
Daniel hesitated. The words caught in his throat, thick with ash.
His father’s gaze fell on his hands. “What have you done?”
“I-” Daniel began, but the lie wouldn’t form. The smoke had soaked through his skin; even silence smelled of guilt.
The man’s expression barely shifted, but his voice sharpened. “The whole village saw. You set God’s house alight.”
“It was an accident,” Daniel managed, though even he didn’t believe it.
His father stepped forward. “You shame this family. You shame me.”
“I didn’t-”
The first blow came before the word could finish. It wasn’t a strike of anger, but of ritual - each hit measured, deliberate, like the tolling of a bell.
Daniel stumbled back, his shoulder catching the table. The cup fell, breaking into two clean halves.
“Do you know what they’ll say?” his father hissed. “That I raised a heretic. A heathen. A boy too weak to fear God.”
“I did fear Him,” Daniel said through his teeth. “I still do.”
“Then prove it.” His father seized his wrist, shoving him toward the fireplace. “Confess. Beg forgiveness.”
Daniel stared at the empty hearth where his mother’s rosary now hung, blackened from years of smoke. Something inside him twisted. “For what? For questioning why he let her die? For wanting mercy?”
“Blasphemy!” The man’s hand struck again. “You’re no son of mine. You’re a curse. You’re a bastard!”
The words hit harder than the blows. Daniel’s vision blurred. He felt his knees buckle, but his father’s grip kept him upright - not out of mercy, but to make sure the punishment was seen.
Outside, a murmur rose. Neighbours gathering. Watching.
The door creaked open. A woman’s voice - the butcher’s wife, maybe - whispered, “He’s possessed. The devil’s in him.”
Another voice, “They say he burned the chapel to mock the Lord.”
His father didn’t deny it. He simply let go, breathing hard, his face pale with fury. “Get out,” he said. “Before I finish what God started.”
Daniel stumbled into the street, one hand pressed to the welt on his cheek. The villagers stepped back as he passed, parting like water around a sinking stone.
No one helped him. No one spoke his name. Only the murmurs followed - devil’s boy, God’s curse, blasphemer.
He made it as far as the edge of the village before his knees gave way. The frost bit into his palms, but he didn’t move. The chapel smoke still trailed faintly above the rooftops, a dark thread against the pale morning.
For a moment, Daniel thought he heard his mother’s voice - soft, tremulous, the way she used to pray. But it was only the wind through the grass.
He bowed his head, tears cutting through the soot on his skin. “If you're watching,” he whispered, “then judge me. Do it yourself.”
The silence that followed felt almost like agreement.
A shadow crossed the ground beside him, though the sun was bright and high.
Daniel didn’t see it - not really - but he felt it, the sudden chill, the stillness in the air. Something ancient had turned its face toward him.
And for the first time, he didn’t look away.