Abigail. Part I

Abigail. Part I. Stigmatic Realism





                Prologue.




                The Silence Before Her.


…And if God created woman, then why — so beautiful, that one dare not touch her?

He wasn’t searching for love. He was searching for silence.But even in silence, one can hear the rustle of wings — not angelic, but feminine. Not heavenly, yet unearthly.

In an old house on the southern edge of Edmonton, where dust had settled on icons, he prayed not with his voice but with his eyes. He lived as hermits do: bread, a candle, and prayer beads trembling at the edge of thought. Sometimes — the church. Sometimes — the library, where the scent of paper was the only thing that reminded him of life.

In winter, he loved snow for its silence. In spring — the icy drops on the glass, like tears. And in summer — those rare days when the sun wasn’t his enemy.

He knew love wasn’t flowers and confessions. Love was a wound that never closed, even if you kept silent.And he was silent.

Until her.

Until the one in whom light came not from lamps, but from beyond the veil God had left slightly ajar… for a moment.

He felt her before he saw her. Like a tremor in his spine. Like a fracture in faith. Like a temptation that isn’t sin — until you say the name aloud.

And he didn’t say it. Because in his world, women were like icons. To look at — yes. To pray before — yes. But never to touch.

But everything changed that winter.When the candles in the church trembled, as if they already knew what was coming.When silence stopped being silence and became the waiting of her step.

Abigail.A name he didn’t know then.A name that later became his prayer.




                Chapter 1. In the Glow of Darkness.




   Edmonton lay still in January’s darkness.The air was dry and sharp, like a prayer that never received a reply. The streets rested beneath heavy snow, streetlights cast golden circles on the ground, and everything felt motionless, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

He walked along a narrow path beside St. Nicholas Orthodox Church, knowing the route down to the last crack in the pavement. It was a familiar pilgrimage — not for miracles, but for silence, where it was easier to hear his own soul.

The church was warm, scented with incense and wax. Candles flickered like living hearts. There were few people — Friday evening, Akathist to the Holy Mother. He stood by the wall, as always, in the shadow of a column, where no one would distract him.

He didn’t notice her at first. At first — only a breath. Not singing, not whisper. Just breath, near him.As if someone had placed a mirror to his chest, and it suddenly fogged.

She stood at the lectern, in a light scarf, her face unseen — only hair, paler than ash, and fingers sliding along prayer beads as if she had never held them before.

He didn’t look at her — not at once.His eyes moved across icons, across the flame of the candle, the gold trim of the altar.But in every flicker, he saw her outline.As if someone had etched her silhouette into the very glass of time.

He knew — this was forbidden.He had sworn to himself: never.That his heart was no home, only a cell.That a woman was a surrender of peace.But inside, it was already humming — not fear, not lust — a trembling.Fine as light through stained glass.

Then she turned.

And everything he knew turned to dust.

It wasn’t love.It was memory — of something that hadn’t yet happened.

She looked at him. Not like a woman. Not like a stranger.But like a book long sought, yet never dared opened.

And he understood:Whatever this was — it had already been written into the parchment of his life.

Her name he still did not know.

But he was already praying for her.

The service ended. People dispersed — some with bows, some with empty hands. He remained.He stood like a tree after a storm, watching the flame of the last candle.

She left first. Without haste. As if she had emerged from the air — and returned to it.He didn’t even know whether she opened the door or simply vanished between the lines of the psalm.

He stepped out behind her, as if by accident.Snow was falling slowly, thickly, as if God Himself were exhaling light into the earth.He stopped at the gate. Listened. Footsteps. Soft, quiet, but distinct.His heart did not ring alarm — it struck like a hammer on iron, forging a name he didn’t yet know.

She walked down the road toward the bus stop. He didn’t follow.He only stood and watched.And knew: whatever he did — would either be a sin or a prayer.

He came home late.The house greeted him with the same silence as always. He took off his coat without turning on the light. Went to the kitchen, poured water. Placed it by the icon. Dropped to his knees.

“Lord…” — only that. Nothing more. Not a plea. Not a confession.Just a name, behind which trembled everything.

That night he didn’t sleep.He read.Everything: the Gospel, the Apophthegmata, Plato.As if hoping to find her gaze in the text.

But even the letters were empty.

He didn’t know how to find her. Didn’t know if he should.But the heart — is not a book. You can’t close it, shelve it, or burn it.

He lay down at dawn. In his fingers — a knot of prayer beads. And in his soul — a fire no longer just a spark.

It was the first day after… silence.

The next morning felt foreign. He woke late, with the sense that a veil now lay between his skin and body. Coffee didn’t warm. Bread had no taste. He couldn’t remember his dreams, but he knew: they had been of her.

He left at noon, with no aim.The city lived its usual Canadian life — unhurried, polite, unobtrusive.People moved about, carrying time in their bags.He walked among them like a leaf on a river, not resisting the current.

He passed by the library. Stopped.Not because he wanted to go in — but because, deep down, he felt she might be there.Not through logic — through a memory of the future.

Inside — silence, the smell of old paper, the soft crackle of heating.He wandered through shelves without reading titles.His hand brushed over book spines, as if seeking a pulse.No familiar covers. No trace.

He lingered near the theology section.Not because he was searching — because his heart beat faster there.He closed his eyes and stood still for a moment, listening: not for sound — but for the void.

“Excuse me…” — a woman’s voice. Calm. Not hers.But he flinched as if hearing a name hidden between letters.

He returned home by evening. Put the kettle on.Wrote only one line in his journal:“I wasn’t searching. But everything in me is searching for her.”



                Chapter 2. Where the Gaze Is Silence.




   He lived the whole week as if underwater. All sounds had become muffled, movements — slow, thoughts — viscous like honey left in the cold. The world had no borders now, except for the memory of her gaze. He returned to it again and again, as to an iconostasis behind which an unsaid liturgy lay hidden.

He wasn’t waiting for a meeting. He was afraid of one. Because now — he knew how she sounded. Not with her voice, but with her presence.

By Wednesday, he found himself near the library again. It was absurd, as if hoping her breath still lingered between the pages. He wasn’t looking for books. He was looking for a trace. A scent. A pause of perfume. A shadow of thought.

But she was there.

She sat by the window in the reading room. An open book before her — but she wasn’t reading. Just staring out at the street. A pencil in her fingers. He didn’t know if she had seen him, but his heart was beating like a bell.

He sat at the neighboring table. Awkwardly. Almost childlike. Picked up a random book, not even glancing at the cover. Opened it — saw no letters. Only her reflection in the glass.

She turned.

“You don’t know how to hide,” she said, not looking directly. “But you do know how to stay silent. That’s a rare gift.”

He smirked. Barely.

“Sometimes silence is louder than words.”

“And sometimes — more cowardly.”

He didn’t reply. Because he knew: she was right. And because he felt — she wasn’t accusing. She was inviting.

They spent two hours in the library. Speaking little. Sometimes — a phrase. Sometimes — a glance. But something alive was building between them. Like the snow outside — soft, quiet, persistent.

“Coffee?” she asked, as if testing something in herself.

He nodded.

And they left.

The caf; on 109th Street was nearly empty. Warm, wooden scents, soft jazz from the speakers made the space between them gentler — but did not ease the tension. He felt as if he wasn’t sitting with a woman, but with revelation.

“What do you read?” he asked, not knowing where the courage came from.

“People,” she answered, and sipped. “And you?”

“Myself. And every time — from scratch.”

She smiled. For the first time — openly. Her eyes laughed, but not mockingly — with the kind of light you see in windows in the evening, when someone is waiting for you to return.

“Are you a monk?” she suddenly asked.

“Almost. I was once closer to that than to life.”

“But you’re alive.”

He didn’t know how to respond. It felt like she saw places in him that he hadn’t dared to visit in years.

“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean,” he said, surprising himself.

“I didn’t ask,” she said. “But it matters. To you.”

The silence between them thickened — but not into deafness. Rather — density. Like a frozen lake beneath which something stirs.

He looked at her hands. Her fingers were thin, but strong. Not for decoration — for writing. He imagined her holding a pen, scribbling in book margins, leaving notes — to herself and to God.

“Do you believe in coincidences?” she asked, when the cups were empty.

“No. I believe in providence. And sin. But not in chance.”

“Then maybe this is one of the two.”

He nodded. But inside, everything screamed: it’s a third thing. Something no words have yet named.

They stepped out into the street. Snow was falling in large flakes. She adjusted her scarf, he buttoned his coat, and they walked slowly, not agreeing on a direction. Just — forward. Together.

The street was like a page. And their steps — like a letter being written for the first and last time.

“I don’t know where this is going,” she said, not turning.

“I don’t know where it came from,” he answered.

“But we both know we can’t turn away now,” she finished.

And in that simple truth, there was more passion than in a thousand touches.

They reached a corner. Time to part. He felt everything tighten inside — not from fear, but from the impossibility of holding on.

“I’d like to see you again,” she said, like confessing a crime.

“I already can’t — not see you,” he whispered.

They walked in different directions. But that night, the city changed. Because for the first time in many years, it held the thirst of return.

And he returned home and again did not turn on the light. He simply sat in his chair and stared out the window, until a silhouette passed behind the glass. Or — the memory of one.

The chapter ended. But not the feeling.

And this — was only the second step.




                Chapter 3. Where the Shadow Renounces.




   He woke in the middle of the night, not knowing whether from cold or something within. The room was dark, like the cave of his heart. He got up, walked to the window, but saw neither the street nor the sky — only his own reflection, weary, unguarded.

He did not speak her name aloud. He feared turning it into sound. It remained inside — like a prayer too holy to be spoken without the sign of the cross.

He picked up the prayer beads. Slowly. As if they were made of glass. Began to read — not prayer, but rhythm, to which breath must yield. Purification did not come. Only pain. Pain as proof the heart had returned to life.

The next day he worked from home. Texts, translations, lectures — things that once brought peace now agitated him. Thoughts would not come. Only she lived inside him.

He sensed a fracture had begun within. Between who he had been, and who he might become. And in between — her image. Light. But irremovable.

By evening he went out. Walked aimlessly. The city breathed snow. Streetlamps glowed like candles in a goblet. He reached the cathedral park. It was empty. Only a frozen pond and two crows on the railing.

He sat on a bench and closed his eyes. Something in his chest was breaking. He didn’t want to sin. But he also couldn’t stop living.

“Forgive me, Lord… if You’re still within me.”

He didn’t know if he’d be heard. But the words came — on their own. Like tears that must be born. He wasn’t speaking to God. To himself. To her. To the universe. About his blindness. His fear. The pain of being alive.

And then — he felt it.

A presence.

He opened his eyes. She was standing a few steps away. Dusk-like, like a vision. In a dark coat. No words.

“I wasn’t following. Just… walking.” She wasn’t explaining. She simply was. Here. Now.

“I know,” he said. “I was waiting.”

They didn’t approach. They just stood. And between them — not a centimeter.

She sat beside him. Silently. They looked at the ice. As if at a mirror of what was within.

“I’m scared too,” she said at last. “But maybe fear is the sign we’re alive.”

He nodded.

And that evening, in the park, with only silence and snow, something happened between them that was greater than kisses: a consent to pain.

They later walked through the park, not breaking the silence. It felt as though every word could shatter the fragile world. She walked slightly ahead, sometimes looking back, as if to make sure he was still there.

“Why do you live so… separately?” she asked without stopping.

He didn’t answer right away. His voice came like a step on thin ice:

“Because once I tried living not separately… and lost myself. Now I guard what’s left. Like those candles in church that burn down against the wall.”

She nodded. They came to a bridge over a frozen river. A lamp cast light into the snow, their shadows intertwined like hands that never dared touch.

“You don’t seem like a priest. But also not like an ordinary man.”

“And you’re not a woman one can simply say ‘I like you’ to.”

She stopped. Looked into his eyes for a long time. Not demanding, not pleading — just receiving his gaze like a confession.

“I’m not married,” she said simply.

“I knew.”

“You know much. But you say little. Why?”

“Because if I start speaking… I won’t be able to stop.”

She smiled. Not playfully. Not flirtatiously. But like an inner ‘yes’ — scarier than a ‘no’.

The wind picked up. She drew her scarf closer. He unbuttoned his coat, removed a glove, and touched her hand.

He touched — not to take, but to remember.

She didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Not for the warmth. For not fearing my shadow.”

He gently squeezed her fingers. Lightly. Barely. And let go.

They walked on. And snow fell evenly behind them. Like a page, finally inscribed with two.

Now it was no longer the third step.

It was the first — into the light, where even darkness began to tremble in presence.




                Chapter 4. Beneath the Skin of Blessing.




   Snow fell gently, lazily, yet each flake seemed infused with meaning. He walked the street as if inside a parable, where every movement bore a sign, every glance — a consequence of prayer.

Since that evening, they were truly two. Without declarations, without promises, without bodily union. But with something greater: an inner assent to remain near, even when it hurts.

Abigail spoke rarely, but her silence was richer than the most eloquent phrases. He learned to listen not with his ears, but with his skin. To sense her silence as an inner current.

“Sometimes I think,” she said once, “that my whole life was preparation for you. But that frightens me. As if you might vanish — and I’d lose all grounding.”

He held her hand in his. Slowly, as if afraid to break it.

“If I vanish,” he said, “you won’t lose your ground. Because you’re no longer standing on earth. You stand in me. And I — in you.”

This wasn’t a romantic phrase. It was a confession of faith. Or a prayer.

That day, they went to church. For the first time — together. He thought he might feel awkward, bringing a woman into the sanctuary where passion had no place. But it was different.

They entered without holding hands, yet everything about them was joined. Even the air they breathed was shared. And in the church, there wasn’t tension — but blessing.

He looked at the icon of the Mother of God. And for the first time, he didn’t ask for protection, or a path, or an answer. He simply thought:

“Lord, don’t take her. Let there be pain, let there be struggle. But don’t take her.”

Abigail stood nearby. And, as if hearing him, softly said:

“That too is a prayer.”

He didn’t ask how she knew. He only nodded. Because in their world, explanations were no longer needed.

After the service, they stepped into the street. He wanted to walk her home. She didn’t object. But at the corner, she suddenly stopped.

“Let’s go somewhere else. Off the route. Where no one waits for us.”

He didn’t understand at first. But he followed. Because her voice held no passion. Only a request. A freedom. A destiny.

They wandered through an unfamiliar part of the city. The buildings were different. The light in the windows — different. He felt the air between them change. As if something was about to happen that had no name, but could never be forgotten.

“I have a friend here,” she said. “She’s out of town. I have the keys.”

He looked at her. She didn’t meet his gaze. Just walked forward.

And everything felt right.

The entrance was old, paint peeling on the rails, the scent of time lingering on every stair. They climbed to the third floor, not touching, but as if carrying the same flame between them — in their palms, in their breath.

She unlocked the door, stepped aside. Inside — quiet. Simple decor, books on shelves, a cup on the table, a blanket on the couch — like a place where no one waits, but someone had recently lived.

She turned on only a lamp. The light fell gently, without disturbing the peace.

“I didn’t bring you here… for what you think,” she said.

He nodded. He wasn’t thinking. He knew.

She took off her coat, walked in, sat on the couch. He remained by the door.

“I brought you here so you’d see: I’m not an illusion. I live. I have dishes, books, dust on the shelves. I’m not light. I’m reality.”

He stepped closer. Sat beside her. Didn’t touch. Just listened.

“And you know…” — she looked somewhere beyond — “I’ve always feared becoming someone’s temptation. But maybe you fear me more than I fear myself.”

He closed his eyes. Was silent for a long time. Then said:

“I’m afraid that if I touch — I’ll break it. You, myself, and all that’s between us.”

She slowly placed her palm on his hand.

“And if you don’t touch — you’ll break it doubly. Because it already is something. It’s alive. And it can’t be hidden forever.”

He opened his eyes. Looked at her. For a long time. Not with desire. Not restraint. But with reverence. As one looks upon what has long become part of a prayer.

They sat side by side. A minute. Ten. Eternity. He knew: if he touched her — everything would change. And when he finally took her face in his hands, he did so with a tenderness as if he were holding the very air from which God sculpted Eve.

And she closed her eyes.

And he said:

“Forgive me.”

And kissed her. Not the lips. The forehead. As a sign, as a seal, as a blessing.

That night, there was no body between them. But something more. As if the silence they had prayed to all this time had finally found a voice.



                Chapter 5. All That Is Quieter Than Sleep.




   He waited. Not for an answer. Not for a call. Not even a meeting. He waited for himself — in that new dimension where she now existed. And everything that had formed between them.

Everything had changed. Even time. Days seemed displaced, no longer weekdays and weekends. Only a sequence of states: without her, in waiting, and — sometimes — near.

His work suffered. He wrote slowly. He prayed more often. But his prayers had become less verbal, more like breathing. He felt her even in the prayer beads. In the pauses between “Lord, have mercy.” In the silence that followed “amen.”

They hadn’t seen each other in four days. Not because they were avoiding each other. Simply — there was no need. He knew: she had not gone. She was in him. Like a deep shadow, like communion, like a dream to which one returns not for sweetness, but for truth.

And yet, on Friday, he went to church. Not for the meeting. For himself. To preserve within him the light that had begun to dim.

And she was there.

Across the hall. In a black coat. Hooded. As before — and entirely different.

He didn’t come closer. And he didn’t look. But he felt — her every movement. Every pause. Every breath.

The service moved slowly. As if time itself had decided to become grace. He bowed, whispered, stared at the icon of St. Nicholas like at a brother. In his chest — a trembling. Quiet. But real.

After the service, he lingered in the narthex. As if hesitating to go out. Or waiting. Or fearing she would come — too soon. Or wouldn’t — and that would be too late.

“Hi,” he heard behind him.

He turned. She stood close. Looked directly at him. Unshielded.

“Hi,” he said. And something trembled in his voice — something he didn’t recognize.

“You left… that night,” she began.

“Yes.”

“It was the right thing. But it hurt.”

“Yes.”

They fell silent. But the silence was different now. It didn’t unite. It measured the pause between internal catastrophes.

“I thought you’d disappear. Completely.”

“I thought the same. That I should disappear. Not to ruin it. But I couldn’t.”

She stepped closer. Very close.

“I don’t want you to disappear. Even if this is a mistake. Even if we burn. I want to know we burned together.”

He looked at her. And this time — didn’t reply.

He simply embraced her. Without desire. Without flesh. Just — like in a dream, where at last one is allowed to stay.

They stood in that embrace for a long time. The world could have derailed, vanished, become white noise — they wouldn’t have noticed. Because at that moment, their bodies were a temple, and breath — a prayer.

Then they went out. Without saying where. Just walking side by side down a snow-covered street. The streetlights glowed softly, like in childhood, when everything could still be forgiven.

He felt something between them had grown denser. Not like a wall. But like fabric, being woven together. Silently, gently, intentionally.

“Sometimes I’m afraid you’ll disappear in the morning,” she said when they reached the bridge over the river.

“And I’m afraid I’ll stay and ruin everything.”

“We both live in fear. But maybe fear is love — not yet able to speak.”

He didn’t know how to answer. Because inside him, everything said yes.

That evening they didn’t go inside. They stayed on the street — for a long time. They talked. They were silent. Watched the black water flow beneath them. Their hands were near. Sometimes touching. Sometimes not. But everything had already been decided — on another level.

When he got home, he didn’t turn on the light. He just sat by the window. And, like that first night, he whispered her name.

But now — without pain. Without fear. As gratitude.

Abigail.

He didn’t know where this was going. But now he knew for sure: he was not alone.

The next day, she didn’t write. And neither did he. Not because he didn’t want to. But because something lived between them that required no confirmations. But even without words, he felt her breath in his room, her shadow in window reflections, her presence in his thoughts.

He opened her letter — the one left between pages of a book in the library two weeks ago. He hadn’t read it then. He’d been afraid. He put it off. Now — he was ready.

“If you’re reading this, it means you’ve already entered. Into my light. Into my darkness. I don’t call. I don’t hold. I simply was. I hope — I remained. And if I disappeared — forgive me. I only know how to stay silent.”

He folded the letter back. Slipped it into his coat pocket. Went to the park. The snow was fresh, the air sharp. He walked slowly, as if every tree were watching him.

On a bench near the pond, someone had left a cup of half-drunk coffee. He sat beside it. Looked at the ice. And felt how everything scattered within him began to form a song. A song without melody. But with truth.

Abigail was still silence.

But now that silence had form. Voice. Color. And his breath inside it.

He stood. And walked where his heart told him to be.



                Chapter 6. Where Light Is Not Forgiven.




   Light, when real, burns. Not with fire, but with the unbearable weight of truth.

She had not written for three days. And he — had not dared to.

Something had shifted. Not between them — but inside them. Like a door that can’t be closed once it has opened to light.

He walked past her house twice. Not looking up. Just sensing: she was near. Even if not behind the glass — inside the air. Inside him.

And then — she stood at his door. No warning. No message. Just her presence — as sudden as salvation.

“I couldn’t be alone anymore,” she said. “But not with people either. Only with you.”

He stepped aside. Let her in.

The house was dim. Always dim. But now it felt like a womb, where silence was not absence — but preparation.

She sat on the floor, not asking for tea or warmth. Just sat. Arms wrapped around her knees. As if protecting herself — from herself.

He sat beside her. Without questions. Without words. Until she said:

“Sometimes I feel like light doesn’t want me. That I’m too… broken to carry it.”

He looked at her — not in pity. In awe. Because only someone touched by light would speak so truly of its weight.

“You carry it,” he said. “Even when you think you’re drowning. Light doesn’t choose the perfect. It chooses the willing.”

She turned to him. In her eyes — something beyond pain. Something like trust that still bleeds.

“You think we can survive this?”

He didn’t answer. He touched her shoulder. Lightly. And she leaned her head to him. Like one leans — into prayer.

And they sat that way for hours. Until evening turned to night. Until the silence became not burden — but shelter.

He brought a blanket. Covered her. Sat nearby. Watching her sleep.

She slept with her face turned upward. As if hoping the sky would answer what the world never did.

And he prayed — not for her. But with her breath. With her pulse. With her silent surrender.

In that night, he knew: this was not just love. This was a calling.

A covenant.

And it would cost them both everything.




                Chapter 7. When the Fire Remembers.




   She woke before him. In his house. On his floor. But the first thought was not shame — it was wonder.

He was still there. Asleep. But present. As if his stillness guarded the silence between them.

She got up slowly. Covered him with the same blanket. Made tea — not out of routine, but out of reverence.

He awoke to the scent. Saw her. In his kitchen. Holding a chipped mug like a relic.

“Good morning,” she said, barely audible.

“Is it?”

She nodded. Then added:

“Yes. Because I didn’t run.”

He sat at the table. Touched the cup. It was warm.

“I dream of fire,” he said. “But it wasn’t burning. It was remembering.”

“What?”

“That everything beautiful comes from pain. That even God’s face is unbearable — because it’s too alive.”

She said nothing. Only looked at him. And something passed between them again — that third thing. That which neither passion nor friendship names.

They ate bread. In silence. Like monks. But not out of asceticism — out of fullness. There was nothing they lacked.

Later that day, she left.

But she left differently. With a look that said: “I’m not escaping.”

He watched her walk away. For the first time, without fear.

He knew now: their fire was not a blaze. It was a memory — of what they had always been, before they met.

And fire, when remembered, does not destroy.

It sanctifies.



                Chapter 8. When the Sky Asks Why.




   He didn't expect the snow to return. But it did — not violently, not with storm, but with that old gentleness, like a memory that revisits not to hurt, but to remind.

He walked toward the river. The place where they'd last spoken words that were more than words. Where silence had spoken first.

There, in the clearing, he stopped. The sky above was layered in ash-blue and pewter. No sun. But not dark either. A space between answers.

He remembered her hand — still, in his. And that look, not seeking comfort, but offering sanctuary.

And he asked — not aloud:

“Why does God let hearts meet… if they’re not meant to remain?”

The sky said nothing. But that silence — it trembled.

She wasn’t there. But she had been. And he felt it. Every molecule of air knew her shape.

He sat down by the water’s edge. A bench now half-buried. And let himself ache.

Sometimes, the ache was the only prayer God allowed.

She was in her room. Curtains drawn. A lamp glowing like a soul trying not to vanish.

She held a book. But wasn’t reading. Just letting it rest on her knees like something sacred, unreadable.

She had wanted to write to him. A thousand times. But what could she say?

That she wanted him not beside her, but within?
That she feared every hour he didn’t write — and every hour he did?
That sometimes love grows like a tree, and sometimes like a scar?

Instead, she whispered:

“Don’t leave me.”

And didn’t know if she meant him, God, or the part of herself still able to feel.

She stood, walked to the mirror. Looked — and didn’t look.

Then took the icon from her shelf. The Virgin Eleousa.

She touched it — not with lips, but with tears.

That night, they didn’t meet. But they thought of the same thing: the fire that remembers.

And above them — the sky that doesn’t answer.

Only asks: Why.




                Chapter 9. The Threshold That Trembles.




   It was Sunday. Snow fell again — slow and steady, like breath in prayer. He arrived at church early. Earlier than usual. Not to find her. To find himself.

There were only candles. No people yet. No chants. Only stillness. He stood before the iconostasis, and for the first time in many days, he felt peace. Fragile, yes. But peace.

The priest entered. Incense. Bells. Words known since childhood. But today — they touched him.

Halfway through the service, he felt a presence.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t need to.

She stood behind him. Not close. But enough. Enough for his pulse to break rhythm.

After the liturgy, she waited by the coatroom. He approached slowly. Like stepping through smoke.

“Let’s walk,” she said.

And they walked.

Through back streets. Past empty benches. Past strangers that seemed not to notice them, as if the two of them were invisible to this world.

She spoke first.

“I dream last night. That we were at a border. And no one was allowed to cross. But you… you didn’t ask. You just stepped through.”

“What happened then?”

“You disappeared.”

He nodded. “That’s how I love. Disappearing. To not ruin what I find sacred.”

“But what if staying is the sacred part?”

He stopped. Looked at her fully. For the first time in weeks — not through fear, not through awe, but simply — truly.

“I don’t want to disappear anymore.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. Just exhaled — like a burden had been lifted.

They crossed the small footbridge. Beneath — frozen water, thin cracks like veins of time.

“Do you think we’ll survive this?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why go on?”

“Because not going on would be worse. And because love is not survival. It’s sacrifice.”

She took his hand. Not firmly. Just enough.

They stood at the edge of the park. Where the path turned to unknown.

And that threshold — it trembled beneath them.

But they stepped forward anyway.

Together.



                Chapter 10. The Place Where Names Are Not Enough.




   The room was quiet. Not with emptiness. With fullness. Their coats hung together. Their cups — side by side in the sink. Their breath — alternating rhythms.

She was sitting on the floor again. Wrapped in a wool blanket. He was near. Reading. Or pretending to.

Then, softly:

“Do you believe our names matter?”

He looked up. “Yes. But not enough.”

She nodded. “Sometimes I want to be unnamed. To be only presence. Or touch.”

“You are. To me, you already are.”

They didn’t speak for a long while.

He placed his book aside. Walked to her. Sat behind her. Wrapped his arms around. Not with possession — with reverence.

“I was afraid this would end us,” she whispered. “That too much light would destroy the shadow.”

“But the shadow,” he said, “is proof the light exists.”

She turned to him. And in her eyes — not question. Not doubt. Only something older than both:

Peace.

They stayed that way for hours. No hunger. No time.

And when evening came, and the lights of the city blinked on outside, they did not move.

Because here — names no longer mattered.

Only presence.

Only them.

Only the unsay-able truth:

That sometimes love is not loud. Not burning.

Sometimes — it’s the silence that finally stayed.


                THE END Part 1.