That was an austerity from his common daily life in Romania. The morning fast was brief due to ritualistic firmness; the Moldoveanu family was ready to discover the new place.

  Together, they were taken to the central square, coming upon an enormous, ancient building of a memorable standard.

  The stained-glass windows sounded renowned, even from the outside. The smallest details of the domes were engraved with elegance in a pure blue and a sublime gold; the structure bordered the whitewashed walls with a stone fa?ade, and the doors were open.

  The iconostasis was a beautiful contrast against the hall empty of furniture, with kneeling pads. The people present marked their presence as early as the visiting family.

  The space opened up in colors and symbols; the realistic paintings in creed. From the royal doors emerged the priest, probably ready to perform the proskomedia.

  The liturgy was about to begin at any moment. The smell of incense enveloped him first, then came the deep sound of the choir, which seemed to vibrate more in the bones than in the ears. Before the icons, everyone made the sign of the cross slowly, kissed the images, lit candles.

  He repeated the gesture, still with the sensation of being observed by those painted eyes that never blinked. He felt everything start very quickly; his unpreparedness was notable. The language was laden with an unknown aura, carrying an essence he had already witnessed.

  The incense hung heavy in the air, as if the ceiling were suspended by smoke. The choir chanted in deep, repetitive voices that seemed older than himself.

  Lucian didn't understand every word, but he felt that something, invisible, traversed the space. When the priest raised the golden chalice, the crowd fell silent: it was as if the entire world fit into that gesture.

  Then, they sang the psalms. Afterwards, the priest processed out with the Book of the Gospels. The people bowed, some touched the floor.

  Later, the Great Entrance: two acolytes carried candles, and behind them, the priest brought the bread and wine covered with embroidered veils. Everything was slow, solemn, as if every movement were a language of its own.

  Everything seemed less orderly but more alive: each lit candle, each kiss on the icons was a private conversation with God. Lucian realized there was no room for distractions: the entire space was a whisper of eternity. Despite the communion he held in his heart, his mind was still disturbed by small beams of light from that ray of sunshine.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The Eucharist was approaching its end; he at least felt it was reaching that point. The environment didn't seem to have a literal trace of that boy, but symbolically, he was in everything. He had become a concept and had established himself in the minutest causes, without needing context to be summoned.

  His parents seemed content, even though they didn't know how to speak a single word of Portuguese; they seemed less melancholy about the sudden change. And about the grief.

  That funeral had been inhuman and dissonant from the truth of that family; they should have stayed longer and given Mihai what he deserved—a proper funeral, even if for three days instead of a week, but a bit more than just three hours would have been better than that.

  He knew that guilt was ruminating in their bodies and minds; they had been so decided in delegating to migration the favor of strengthening ties with economic partners, due to the loss.

  However, who deals with grief by reaffirming partnerships? He knew little about the adult world, but he had the right to think about all that; after all, he was being directly affected.

  He was trapped in mourning, on a completely different continent, where the heat seems to want to consume everything around it; life was a diverse experience in every person of that country.

  It wasn't rigid, restricted, and fully virtuous; each one had their values, and without any contradiction, because somehow, everything complemented each other in the most malicious and clement way possible.

  Not that in his country there weren't people who lived their own lives as they wished, but respect for formality, family, and tradition was still quite faithful to the common lifestyle.

  His grandfather, that night, had said controversial things, but now, experiencing what he had considered nonsense, he understood him better than ever.

  If he were there, which would be improbable, as he wouldn't be in that country if he were alive; he would manifest his last questions to the person who made him question the things around him.

  His freedom affected him, however, not because of what he thought. Miguel believed it was caused by him going against what Lucian believed, but far from it; he had never seen someone be virtuous and still have their total freedom.

  That nickname, "like God"—perhaps he flirted with that possibility, of being free and virtuous, of being divine. But with the name of an angel, still following that path intended of anarchy, it made him the kiss of Judas. A fallen angel.

  He was the rebel with the most justified and benevolent cause he had ever known.

  Nevertheless, he still needed to be careful while flying; if he flew too close to the sun, his wings could melt; and despite already being burned by it, he was also a bearer of the light. He urgently needed to set him on fire in return, teach him that he wasn't the only one who knew how to shake the other's system.