The temple greeted Michel with ringing silence.
The priest who opened the door did not ask unnecessary questions. He merely glanced briefly at Michel, then at the child in his arms, and nodded somewhere deeper into the corridor.
"Follow me."
And Michel went. Submissively, as if drawn by an invisible thread. His feet carried him along the stone slabs, past high columns, past dim lamps, past stained glass windows where saints stretched their hands towards the sky.
He was led through several courtyards — inner courtyards paved with light stone — and eventually led to a long, one-story building. It did not resemble the other temple structures: simpler, more modest, with peeling paint here and there.
"This is where those who have nowhere else to go live," said the priest. "Refugees, wanderers, simply people in trouble. There isn't much space, but it will be enough for a start."
Michel froze on the threshold.
Several oil lamps were burning inside. Along the walls stretched wooden bunks covered with thin mattresses. On them sat, lay, or simply sat staring into space, people — emaciated, ragged, with empty eyes.
An old man who had lost a leg stared gloomily at the wall. A woman with a bandaged head rocked a sleeping baby in her arms. A middle-aged man moved his lips silently — perhaps praying.
The former heir of the Carter duchy had never found himself in a place like this before.
"The empty spot is over there," the priest pointed to the far corner. "There is only one bed, unfortunately. For the child... well, you will fit together."
Michel did not answer. He simply walked to the indicated spot, lowered himself onto the mattress, feeling the cold of the wall against his back, and only then allowed himself to exhale.
Gavin whimpered in his sleep and pressed himself to his chest.
"In the morning, food will be brought to you," the priest added before leaving. "If you need anything else, ask Brother Marcus. He is in charge here."
The priest nodded towards another priest who was in another part of the room and was currently talking to other people.
Michel merely nodded slightly, indicating that he understood.
The door closed behind him.
The young man found himself alone among strangers, in a strange place where he had never thought he would end up. Despite the fact that the former heir of the duchy instinctively felt disgust at his surroundings, fatigue nonetheless took its toll.
During this day, the young man had truly exhausted himself too much.
So, sighing quietly, Michel decided to go to sleep. He hugged the child to him and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep. He planned to think about everything else later.
***
Three days had passed since Michel Carter came to the temple.
He almost never left the common building. Sometimes — out of necessity, sometimes — to get food, which was distributed twice a day: thin porridge, a piece of bread, a mug of herbal decoction. He ate mechanically, without tasting, and returned to his spot.
The child cried at night. The neighbors grumbled, but no one complained to the temple workers — perhaps out of pity, or perhaps because everyone here was accustomed to suffering.
Meanwhile, although he had not planned it at all, the duke's eldest son nevertheless had to master the skills of child care. Simply because there was no one else here to do it.
The other temple workers were too busy with other people, many of whom were sick or seriously injured, so they had no time to also care for an infant. So Michel had to do everything himself.
Thank God there were also other women with small children here who taught him.
Michel learned to change cloth diapers. Learned to rock the baby when he cried. Learned to ignore the smells and how his joints cracked after a night on a hard mattress.
But above all... all this time, the young man thought a lot.
About what had happened to him.
And including about his own life before. And about his own sins.
For the first time in his life, Michel Carter truly looked at himself from the outside and realized everything. All this time, he had thought that his own life had been cruel and unfair to him.
But in reality...
Wasn't he the same? Didn't he himself, living in luxury, walk past beggars in the streets? Had he ever thought about how these people lived — the inhabitants of the temple buildings, those who had nothing?
He despised them. Despised them mentally, without even noticing it. "Beggars," "panhandlers," "those who couldn't make it." And now he had become one of them.
The irony of fate. Or punishment.
Michel clenched his fingers, digging his nails into his palms. The pain helped him not to cry.
No, he did not even deserve this place. This piece of bread. This miserable mattress.
The life he had led before was simply disgusting. And it was right now that Michel realized this more clearly than ever before. Simply because he had lost everything.
And now he sits here, holding someone else's child to his chest, and is afraid even to look outside...
Truly a pathetic fate.
On the fourth day, a priest came to the common building. But it was not Brother Marcus.
Michel understood this immediately by the way the expressions on the other refugees' faces changed. Someone straightened up, someone hastily adjusted their clothes, someone lowered their gaze.
In the doorway stood a tall old man in simple but expensive robes. A white mantle, a silver cross on his chest, gray hair neatly combed back, and a long beard. His face was calm, almost detached, but his eyes — dark, attentive — looked as if they saw every person here through and through.
Behind him crowded two more priests — younger, with respectful faces.
"...That's the head of the temple," whispered one of the refugees next to Michel.
Michel froze.
He had heard of this man before. Who hadn't? The Holy Father was the head of the capital's central temple and in recent years had become one of the most influential people in the empire. All because the northern region itself was his open patron. And yet — he was also a known patron of the destitute.
At least, that was what was said.
Michel had never believed such fairy tales. But now, watching the head of the temple walk between the bunks, stop at each refugee, say something quietly to them, place a hand on the cripple's shoulder and bow his head, listening to the answer... he doubted.
Did this man truly care about these people? Was this not just a game to maintain a public reputation?
"How are you feeling, my child?" the Holy Father asked the woman with the infant.
"Thank you, Your Eminence... better," she whispered.
"Is there enough bread?"
"Yes, we are not starving."
"Thanks be to the Creator. If you need anything — don't hesitate, speak up."
The Holy Father moved slowly but inexorably. He spoke to almost everyone. And to each — differently: to one sternly, to another gently, to a third with a slight smile.
And then he stopped in front of Michel.
"You are new," said the head of the temple. Not a question. A statement of fact. "I have not seen you before."
Michel raised his head. Up close, the face of the head of the central temple seemed even more remarkable — deep wrinkles around the eyes, gray in his beard, and that very gaze: calm, piercing, as if this man already knew everything Michel could tell him.
"Yes," Michel answered shortly.
"Is this child yours?"
"No."
"Whose, then?"
Michel was silent. Honestly, he couldn't even properly explain how exactly he was connected to this child. But in any case... He couldn't tell the truth. That was certain.
The Holy Father seemed to understand this. He did not press or insist on an answer.
"What is your name?"
"Michel," the young man replied, but deliberately did not mention his surname.
"Michel," the priest repeated. "A good name. Will you allow me to sit?"
Without waiting for an answer, the head of the temple lowered himself onto the edge of the bunk next to Michel. The priests behind him exchanged glances but remained silent.
For a while, they sat in silence. The child slept — surprisingly soundly, as if sensing that the surroundings were safe and trustworthy.
"You know," the priest began quietly, looking somewhere ahead at the other refugees, "I often come here. Not because I have to. But because these people... they remind me of what I serve for."
Michel did not answer.
"I saw how you looked at these people," the priest continued. "With pity. Or perhaps with a sense of guilt. Am I right?"
Michel flinched.
"Don't be afraid. I don't read minds. I've just seen that expression on many faces... It appears on those who have lost everything and now don't know if they even deserve the right to compassion."
"I don't..." Michel began and faltered.
His throat tightened. The words got stuck somewhere in his chest, tangling into a tight, painful knot.
The Holy Father did not rush him.
"It seems to me," Michel finally forced out, "that I shouldn't be here."
"Why?"
"Because..." his voice trembled. "Because I have done too much wrong. Things that I may not be able to atone for in my entire life. Because..."
He fell silent, feeling his eyes treacherously moisten.
"...because I don't want to go on living, knowing who I am."
In those last words, there was no desire to evoke pity. Only emptiness. The very emptiness that had settled inside him at the moment when he realized: his life had become completely meaningless. And even if someday he returned to the Carter mansion, would there be a place for him there?
Could he still call himself the eldest son of the Carter family after all those years of lies and actions he had committed only out of cowardice and a desire to protect himself?
The head of the temple was silent for a long time.
And then he said:
"Do you know what distinguishes saints from sinners?"
Michel looked up at him.
"Not the absence of sins," the priest replied. "But the desire to atone for them. Everyone who enters this temple brings a burden with them. Some light, some heavy. But we do not ask how much it weighs. We ask: are you ready to move forward?"
"...I don't know," Michel said honestly.
"That is an honest answer," the other chuckled softly. "Better than false confidence."
The Holy Father stood up but did not leave. He looked down at Michel, and there was neither condemnation nor condescension in his eyes. Only calm, almost cold understanding.
"If you do not want to live your former life — then don't. Become someone else. The temple needs any help. Perhaps it is not what you expected," something like a smirk flickered in the priest's voice, "but it is honest work. You can atone for what you consider your sins. Not through prayer. Not through verbal repentance. But through deeds."
Michel Carter froze.
"But I... I don't know how..."
"No one knows until they start."
The Holy Father extended his hand to him. Not a blessing gesture, not condescendingly — but as one equal to another.
"If you wish, stay. And perhaps one day you will understand that you deserve not punishment, but forgiveness. And, more importantly — that you can forgive yourself."
Michel looked at this hand extended to him.
Old, calloused — yet it seemed so warm and reliable.
He thought again about what he had done. About who he had been. And about who he could become, while it was still not too late...
And slowly, uncertainly, as if taking a step into an abyss, Michel Carter extended his hand in return.
With this gesture, the duke's eldest son determined his future fate. To give up what he had. And including regrets and unjustified hopes.
And to become a priest.