Christopher's journal continues.
This chapter combines his reflections at the start of the day with what he witnessed on the trail. These entries may feel quieter than the main story, but they carry threads that will matter later. His eyes see what others cannot, and those visions are beginning to take shape.
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I thought I should put down a few lines before we set off. We are gathered in a small clearing, the grass worn flat where hikers have come and gone before us. Rough-hewn logs ring the firepit, and we sit like schoolchildren while our guide speaks. Her voice carries sharp authority, clipped by the morning chill.
She runs through the do's and don'ts of the trail, and I find myself strangely grateful for her thoroughness. Even at my age, I am still learning how to walk the world without stumbling. I glance at my pack beside me: food sealed tight, water sloshing in the flask, stove and flint, spare rope, the little comforts of survival all tucked neatly inside. A man can only trust in what he carries.
The guide raises a hand, pausing us. "Patience," she says, "especially with the elderly. The trail takes the time it takes." Her eyes flicker over the group, and I feel the weight of her words settle on my shoulders.
I stop writing here to listen. We march soon. I will pick this up again when the sun is higher, perhaps at our break around eight.
Christopher's Journal - Day 6 (Break at Eight)
We paused on a ridge for water, the sun climbing higher, the forest alive with chatter. James pushed to move again, striding ahead as if the trail were a boardroom to be conquered. Andrea called after him to slow, her voice taut with frustration. He did not listen. He never does.
Their quarrel was nothing new, the words sharp but ordinary. Yet as I stood apart, pen poised, something shifted.
The world dimmed. The birdcall fell away. The rustle of branches, the crunch of boots, even the murmur of Andrea's voice were gone. Silence crashed over me like a tide, so sudden it left my ears ringing.
And in that silence, Andrea burned.
Ribbons of gold drifted from her middle, curling slow, like script loosed from a scroll. They floated outward, weightless, moving in invisible currents. They circled her, grew with her anger, alive with something I could not name.
Her lips still moved, though I heard nothing. James turned, gesturing sharply, still caught in their argument, unaware that the very air had abandoned them.
Only I saw. Only I felt the hush. And in it, Andrea stood illuminated, the Scripture rising from her as if Heaven itself breathed through her womb.
When the sound returned, it was sudden, jarring, the forest clamoring back to life as though nothing had broken. James rubbed his forehead, muttering. Andrea looked away, weary. No one else noticed.
But I know what I witnessed. The Flame is already stirring.
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Christopher is confronted with visions he cannot fully understand. The golden ribbons and the silence of the forest unsettle him, yet he clings to the hope that Heaven shows him these things not to drive him into doubt, but because it is part of God's great design. His struggle is not to master what he sees, but to trust that these glimpses carry purpose.