Litter lay abound, souring under careless footsteps. Barren walls wept mortar, like chafed scars on sloughing skin. Splintered planks nailed askew where time had gnawed through wood.
The Church of Morning.
Sunlight bathed the building—yearning souls shimmered under Morning's reflected gaze.
Before it, a figure squatted like a fallen colossus. Ankles buried beneath, yet his shoulder scraped the sky. Some knew him as the local priest. Others elevated him to the station of Father—a title carved from love, not cloth.
Lost sheep chanced upon the confines of his domain, seeking solace. He made sure they found it.
Mildew feathered in the robe's seams, yet the silver clasp at his throat caught the light—cold, sharp, new as a promise.
"You seem spirited", he noted. "Something happen at work?"
Eve's neck stiffened—a tendon jumping—before yielding.
"You could tell?"
The hammer stilled. He turned, lips smirking, meeting Eve's eyes.
"Call it divine intuition."
The voice rang like a sonorous bell, as if his words alone slid down silk, not air.
Eve's neck resisted, then gave way—eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Blackcoat business. Work cut short. It's nice to be here with some time to spare, for once."
"Unusual", the priest grimaced. His brows pinched into a question, but he didn't pry. "The Lord grants favour in curious ways. An unexpected blessing is a blessing all the same."
He lumbered over, pulling Eve into a hug.
She pressed against his shoulders—arched like a vaulted nave. His unkempt beard streaked with ash; skin mapped with sin's topography—every ridge a confession. Dark, olive skin hid blemishes where hair couldn't. For a heartbeat, she mistook him for Tilda.
"Come. There is much to do today."
He led Eve into the church, collecting leftover planks along the way.
The entrance opened into a prayer hall. Inside, crayon skies and valleys bled through peeling plaster, fading into the cracks. Melting wax candles tangled with the bitter tang of unwashed bodies. Rows of benches crowded the hall's centre, their surface slicked with rancid oil. Eve's fingers came away sticky, smelling of burnt lard and sweat.
Through the middle, a passage tore through to a speakers podium. A child's sock—ripped and soiled—lay abandoned near the dais. Above it: the symbol of The Sun, carved from wood.
Eve scanned the empty hall. The faithful would come—parents, children, beggars—young and old.
"I'll hold the sermon first. We will distribute provisions after."
Every other day, the church distributed hot food amongst the disadvantaged. Its four corners provided the sole refuge for countless children, from both The Sun's heat and The Moon's abominable stare: the only orphanage in the Southern Sector.
"A new volunteer will be joining us today. I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye out, show him the ropes?"
Eve nodded.
"Gladly, Father Gregari."
Eve glanced around.
"The others aren't here yet?"
Gregari shook his head.
"Selma, Fatah and the others are gone", his voice frayed, shoulders sinking to his chest.
"Mayor cut funding. The Church can't afford to employ them anymore."
'Funding. Again.'
"I'll go ahead and fire up the stove. Have a good sermon."
Gregari nodded, marching towards the hall.
A common mess connected the prayer hall to the kitchen. On the other end, it led upstairs to the dormitory.
Eve joined the kitchen—recognising a few staff and volunteers. The room hazed with bubbling broth. Salt stung her chapped lips; cumin dusted the air like incense. Conversation melted like warm stock amidst the steam and clatter.
Fire cackled and butter hissed into runny pools. Outside, the shadows stretched, growing longer. Steady hands stirred vigorously; huge pots of soup boiled through their final simmer.
Before long, muffled sounds of a packed prayer hall leaked through adjoining walls.
Faithful adherents waited with bated breath. Aching pangs chewed through their abdomens; hollow eyes affixed on the hanging wooden symbol. Tremors shook the benches. Light glinted from their eyes, a language older than words. The room shifted. With all the seats taken, most sought to squeeze into empty space on the floor.
Gregari stood. Right hand on his left chest—a wordless greeting. He raised a hand. Silence fell like a guillotine. Then, he spoke:
"In the distant past, shadows raced the land. Night engulfed earth in darkness. Then, Morning came—from beyond Uncertainty—and salvation was made certain."
His voice rose.
"Morning tore his flesh, and hung The Sun high. Rot fled. Disease gasped. The Sun fed us."
Rough palms pressed the wooden sun—its surface warm from countless hands. "Morning's Light", he intoned, "is the smell of bread rising at dawn."
Eve's spoon clattered against the pot. Selma adored that scripture.
"Morning enfolds our homes at day, its blessing warding us through the gloom of Night. Such is His mercy: He distinguishes not the kingly palace from a small slum hut—Light shelters us all the same."
The congregation listened—enraptured. Even children knew not to make a ruckus.
"We live in trying times, my brethren. Let us mourn now, those poor souls torn by Rot. Man stumbles, yet Morning comes, to seal their rest. May The Sun illuminate their earthen tomb, piercing Light through clay—until it reaches them beyond."
Gregari held a silent vigil for the Facestealer victims. Darting eyes and impatient legs finally found their bearing. And as if on cue, the aroma of hot soup wafted through the hall, beckoning believers to eat their fill.
Children raced up and down, dragging their guardians along the queue, drooling at the mouth. Empty bowls. Hungry hands. Famished stomachs queued like penitents.
From the side, Gregari walked up to Eve, ushering forward a young man.
"Irya, this is Eve. She will be your mentor."
Eve regarded the man. His hair was black, like stolen light; eyes as clear as the summer sky. He stood a head or two taller than Eve, yet equally dwarfed under the priest's stature. A humorous glint danced his pupils.
"Thank you, Father", Irya bowed.
The priest excused himself, needed elsewhere.
The young man turned to Eve, extending his hand. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Eve nodded, taking his arm. She wasted no time in getting him settled.
"Likewise. You can man the station next to me. Every person gets two servings. If you need help, just ask."
Bowls filled. Steam rose. Joy and hope danced in each eye as hunger was vanquished—bright as winter air. Spoons clinked, accompanying chatter.
When adamant requests for more fill came pouring in, Irya disarmed frustrations with practiced skill, as if he'd worked the stands all his life.
The bulk of the crowd cleared in an hour. Finally, the last pair of attendees arrived for their fill.
Eve poured in their portions when a toddler—young and fearless with curiosity—cried. "More! I want more!"
A young woman flicked her gaze to Eve and Irya, fingers gripping the child's shoulder—a silent plea in the tremor of her knuckles.
"Sorry about that. Ya know how lively the kids get."
Irya leaned in, cutting through the embarrassment. "Yes, I know indeed! It's hard being the elder sibling, but you do it with such grace."
The woman raised a brow.
"Smooth flirt eh? C'mon Erik, mama will feed you."
She ruffled the boy's hair, finding a spot to eat.
The silly smile never left Irya's face. Eve scraped burnt lard from the pot, the grates drowning her sigh, 'Gift of glib indeed.'
With the service nearing its end, Gregari approached the both of them.
"Good work as always, Eve."
He looked over to Irya.
"Thank you too, Irya. How was your first day?"
"Like herding ghosts", Irya's thumb traced the rim of his ladle, glancing at Eve. " But yeah. Back home, we called this a blessing. Having a considerate teacher helped a bunch too."
"I didn't do much. You were just fine on your own", Eve retorted.
"That makes me glad." A smile flickered across Gregari's face—then dimmed. "Forgive me, I shouldn't trouble you after a hard service but..."
His gaze cut to a corner—a boy hunched in the church's shadow, fingers gripped around a sketch. The paper trembled as he painted strokes, over and over.
"This one", Gregari muttered, voice dropping like a stone in a well, "won't eat alone. Won't you give him company?"
"Leave it to me", Eve responded. The priest's lips shaped thank you—voiceless. He moved on to meet the other service staff.
Eve poured three bowls, handing one to Irya—their own share.
Irya walked in tandem. "I'll join you", he offered. She nodded.
The pair strode over to the child—one sat on the left, the other to his right.
Irya flashed a disarming smile.
"How magnificent! Who painted this stellar piece, I wonder?"
The boy's eyes stayed fixed on the paper.
"I did." A crayon—worn small—snapped in his small fist, wax dusting his knuckles like crushed stone.
Eve leaned closer.
"I like this part. Is that you?"
The child beamed.
"Yup! That's me. This is my dad. Look! He has the ball he gave me last birthday. And...—"
She swept the painting. Waxen edge bit into the fibres. Two figures held a child's hands.
One in brown, holding a ball. Another in black.
Scribbles gouged the face like claw marks. Two wings sprawled where hands should've been. A tiny thumb traced the tear.
"—that's Mister Fairy. He lends his wings to sad daddies."