REGRET
The church bell rang softly, echoing through the small town as rain began to drizzle from the grey heavens. Inside, the pews were filled—men, women, children, all sitting in reverence, hands folded, eyes forward. The priest stood at the pulpit, his voice steady yet warm, carrying across the quiet chapel.
"My brothers and sisters in Christ," he began, pausing to let his gaze fall on the faces before him. "We often say, when something good happens in our lives, This is God's will. And when something bad happens, we also say, This too is God's will. But let me tell you this truth…"
He leaned forward slightly, his voice firm, his words deliberate.
"Not everything that happens to you is God's will."
The crowd shifted uneasily. Some tilted their heads, confused. The priest's lips curved with a gentle smile.
"Yes, you heard me right. It sounds confusing, doesn't it? Let me explain."
He lifted a hand, pointing upward.
"God is good. His will is perfect. His plans are meant for hope, not destruction. But you see, He has given every one of us a gift—the gift of free will. It means we have the power to choose. To choose kindness, or cruelty. To choose light, or darkness. And when a man chooses to do evil, that is not God's will. That is his own decision, his own free will, and he will answer for it."
The church grew quiet. Every ear strained to catch his words.
"You cannot harm another, you cannot betray, you cannot shed blood or cause suffering, and then excuse yourself by saying this is God's will. No. God does not command evil. Evil comes from hearts that have turned away, from men who hide behind lies. But remember this: every action has its weight. Every deed has its consequence. You reap what you sow. We call it karma, we call it judgment—different words, same truth. What you put into this world will return to you."
Heads bowed in shame, in thought. Some clutched their rosaries tighter.
"So, my children, do not curse God when storms come, when people wrong you, when the world seems cruel. That is not His hand striking you—it is the brokenness of men, of circumstances, of the world itself. But when blessings come, when kindness touches you, when light enters your life—thank Him. For He is the source of all that is good. Remember this: God is not the author of evil, but He is the healer of wounds. He does not will your pain, but He can redeem it. Trust Him. Love Him. Walk in His ways. For in the end, the good you sow will be your salvation."
The words sank deep into the crowd. Some nodded, tears brimming in their eyes. Some looked down in guilt, silent, restless.
And among them sat the Vice Mayor—Angelyn's father. He sat rigid, face calm, hands clasped like a man of faith. But his ears were deaf, his heart hardened. He let the words wash over him without entering, pretending to be holy, a saint among men. No one could see the horns hidden under his polished smile. He closed his ears like a monkey, blind to his sins, blind to the blood on his hands.
Outside, the rain poured heavier.
On the wet streets, the old man's grandson trudged through the storm, his school uniform clinging to his skin. In his hands were soggy flyers, each one bearing the picture of his missing grandfather. His hair stuck to his forehead, his shoes splashed through puddles, yet he pressed on, past the church doors, stapling posters onto every wall, every post, every corner.
He paused in front of the church gates, his chest heaving, his fingers trembling as he pressed a ruined flyer against the iron bars. The ink bled in the rain, smudging his grandfather's face. His knees weakened, and slowly, he fell to the wet pavement, clutching the paper to his chest.
And there, under the rain, he broke.
"God…" his voice cracked, heavy with sobs. "Please… let me see my gramps again. I beg you… please."
He buried his face in the flyer, tears mingling with the rain.
"I swear—I'll never talk back to him again. I'll never yell at him when I'm angry. I'll never complain about the food he gives me. I'll never compare it to other families. Just… just please… give me another chance. Just one chance…"
The memories came rushing, stabbing him in the chest.
The times he had slammed the door after arguing with his grandfather.
The times he rolled his eyes and muttered curses when his grandfather scolded him.
The times he wasted nights with friends while his grandfather waited, alone, with food going cold on the table.
The times he said, "You don't understand me, old man."
And worst of all, the day he called him a failure. A useless man. A burden.
He sobbed harder, his fists striking the wet ground.
"I wasn't the grandson you deserved. I was a delinquent, a disappointment. I skipped school, I failed classes, I made you worry every damn day. You wanted me to be better, but I only pushed you away. And still… still you were there. Still you took care of me. Still you… you loved me…"
His voice cracked completely. He could hardly breathe through the storm of his grief.
"Please, God… let me make it up to him. Let me be the grandson he wanted. Not a delinquent. Not a failure. Just… just let me show him I can change. Let me say I'm sorry. Let me hold him one more time. Please… I beg you…"
The rain poured down, relentless, drowning his cries, carrying his words to the heavens.
Inside the church, the priest's voice still echoed: "What you sow, you will reap."
The boy pressed his forehead against the cold bars of the gate, his voice falling to a whisper.
"Please, God… don't take him from me. Not like this. I can't… I can't lose him before I make things right…"
The flyer slipped from his hands, plastering itself against the wet stone path. His grandfather's faded smile stared up through the puddles.
The boy wept in silence as the chapter closed, the heavens raining down as if to mourn with him.
CHAPTER END 🫠