Almeida observed the abandoned church not far from him with almost infinite curiosity; his eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressed together, and his mind, burdened by a temptation that had grown from the deepest part of his psyche, was in chaos.
"What's inside there?" Almeida wondered. The cold wind struck his face, making his hair flutter in the air. His feet pressed down on the yellowish grass that was on the verge of autumn, while some old fences made of worn wood surrounded the mud-and-straw huts not far from him.
Almeida took a step forward, determined. His mind told him he had to investigate what was inside the abandoned church. It was as if something within that old structure—its walls cracked by age, built from stone, faded lime, and topped with a small cross—were calling him urgently.
"Almeida!" The boy was pulled from his thoughts by a kind, gentle voice. Almeida smiled faintly as a warm feeling filled his heart.
"It's Mom," he murmured, his voice slightly cracked while a smile spread across his face. Almeida quickly took small steps through the almost-dry grass, turned his head away from the church, and with a small hop began running toward the source of the voice.
The boy's eyes shone with passion. His hands moved in an odd, slightly erratic way, a little… different from what a normal person would do. Almeida felt a faint twinge in his chest, something he ignored because his mother was calling him.
Almeida ran quickly, his steps leaving deep marks in the yellowish grass—marks so deep they looked as if they had been made by a roller. Curiously, even though the wind rustled the leaves of the grass, it did not disturb the footprints Almeida left.
"Mom!" Almeida shouted once he reached a small hut surrounded by an old wooden fence. His mother, a woman with a slightly tired appearance, bright brown eyes, and skin thicker than the leather of her shoes, turned around.
Her name was Alejandra. The woman smiled when she saw her son not far away; her eyes examined him calmly and patiently. Her smile deepened the wrinkles on her face. Her head shifted as she observed the footprints Almeida had left on the grass as he approached the house.
Her eyes narrowed intensely. "Hmm," she let out a quiet murmur. Her face tightened into a deep frown. The gentle, kind presence she radiated changed in an instant. Her posture straightened, and her eyes shone with a dangerous sense of caution and fear as she swallowed.
"Son…" Alejandra took slow steps toward the gate, and therefore toward her child. Almeida didn't seem to notice the change in his mother and, if he did, he didn't show it.
"Mom?" Almeida asked, raising his arms to ask for a hug. Alejandra's eyes examined him like a wolf studying a sheep; they moved from his messy hair to his hand-woven clothes, and finally to his leather shoes.
"Your shoes… they're a bit… faded," the woman pointed out calmly. Almeida tilted his head, about to say something when he looked down at his shoes and indeed—they were faded.
"But…" Almeida murmured, struck by the confusion of seeing the black color of his shoes mixing with a white that threatened to become the new color. He was surprised, to say the least. Alejandra had bought them for him at the village fair last month.
Sigh.
Alejandra sighed, shook her head, and opened the small gate. She wiped her hands on her apron as she walked and, once in front of Almeida, reached out to pat her son's head.
"Don't look at the abandoned church again. Don't even go near it, alright?" Her voice was soft, like a gentle warning. Still, Almeida trembled for a second. He lifted his head, confused.
Why does her voice feel as cold as the wind?
He wondered. He had lived with his mother for years and she had never spoken to him in that tone.
But shaking the thought away and labeling it as paranoia, Almeida smiled. He nodded a couple of times before asking, "What's for dinner tonight, Mom?"
"Oh, well, let's say… it's a surprise." Alejandra smiled brightly; her eyes drifted again to the footprints Almeida had left on the grass on his way home. She inhaled and let out a long sigh before gently pulling her son's head toward her to bring him inside.
That night, dinner was special for Almeida, to say the least. As a family of two without a strong man at home to provide, meals were usually hard bread, vegetable soup, and if they were lucky, some cheese.
But that night they would have stewed meat. On the table inside the small hut, directly in front of Almeida sitting in his chair, was a large bowl full of stewed meat with vegetables. A bit of steam rose from the food.
Even so, the boy noticed something: his mother didn't eat. In fact, her side of the table didn't have a plate, not even bread, just a glass of water she sipped from now and then.
Almeida tried to share his large bowl with his mother; however, she excused herself, saying she wasn't hungry. It didn't matter how much Almeida insisted—she didn't eat. She simply said, "I'm not hungry, son. Eat. Dinner will get cold. You like goat meat stew with vegetables, right? When your father was alive, you always asked him to bring some goat meat so I could cook it."
After that, she added, "Now that things are going a bit better at work, I bought that meat for you… make Mom happy and eat." Almeida noticed her slightly tired face, her messy hair, her dirty apron, and the patched clothes she wore.
"But…" the boy thought. He wanted to say something, refuse, tell his mother she should have used the money to buy herself decent clothes instead. But a lump formed in his throat.
On his bed—a large piece of leather with some animal fur spread on the dirt floor—Almeida stared at the thatched ceiling. A single candle lit the interior with its dancing flame. "Mom went to the bathroom," he told himself. He patted his stomach and smiled. "Dinner was delicious."
"But," the boy narrowed his eyes tightly; his chest ached, a mix of physical and mental pain. He let out a deep sigh, staring curiously at the candle's dancing flame nearby. Little by little, the food took effect, making him feel sleepy, and he closed his eyes.
The next morning.
The boy opened his eyes, stretched his neck as he yawned. The feelings from last night left his body along with his fatigue, and almost by instinct he stepped out of his small hut.
He went out, as usual, to sit near the apple tree with no apples visible, a few meters from his hut. He liked to watch the sunrise from there. His pupils shifted to observe the green leaves of the apple tree and then drifted to the distant mountains. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a yellowish light that covered the world.
Almeida smiled; he loved watching the sunrise. He reached his hand upward, feeling the morning warmth carried by the sun's rays. However…
"I…" Almeida murmured. His mind remembered something—the church. It hit him like a sudden truck, like an alarm waking him from his reverie. He felt a sudden need, an impulse, an urge to go to the abandoned church from yesterday.
Almeida quickly spun around. His eyes took in the wind-rustled yellow grass, the footprints he had left yesterday, and finally the abandoned church that looked small in the distance from where he stood.
Almeida raised a hand and, almost as if trying to swat a mosquito, clenched his fist toward the direction of the church.
"Maybe… I should…" Almeida whispered to himself. The sense of urgency slowly calmed, but the curiosity remained.
"What's inside that church?" he muttered again. Then his face showed a faint smile. He thought of his mother, Alejandra, and her warning. He slightly tilted his head to glance at his house.
Just then, the hut's door opened. A tired-looking woman, with slightly hunched posture, stepped out.
"It's Mom!" Almeida shouted. The usual smile painted his face as euphoria washed over him.
But Alejandra didn't share her son's excitement. She saw Almeida's raised hand—the direction he was pointing at was… the church. She bit her lower lip; she dropped the bowl she had been holding. She almost screamed, but held herself back.
"Almeida." She called him and took quick steps forward, wearing a serious expression.
"Mom?" The boy didn't understand what was happening. His eyes focused on her serious expression, almost not comprehending. Then he noticed his raised hand. His eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly hid that hand behind him.