Cairen, the spectator, was immersed in the nightmare of his own childhood, a ghost forced to witness the meticulous construction of his ruin.
The vision stabilized in the early years of the church. He saw himself, at eight years old, being housed in the 'Eastern Building.'
It was a vast and gloomy warehouse, with rows of mats on the floor, sheltering dozens of children and a few desperate adults.
All shared the same look. A mixture of lingering fear and a faint spark of hope. Hunger, his constant companion on the streets, had been miraculously driven away.
Three meals a day. Without fail. Bread, soup, and sometimes even a piece of fruit.
For young Cairen, this new place was a paradise after days on the streets. A roof and food. He did not question it. But now, Cairen the spectator watched with a tightness in his chest.
Not from longing, but from retrospective horror.
