The heavy doors creaked open beneath Matteo's hand, their weight dragging against the stone as though reluctant to yield. A cool draft rolled out, carrying with it the scent of aged wood, melted wax, and something older still—silence.
He stepped inside.
The vast hall unfolded before him—rows of worn pews, flickering candles shivering against the shadows, and the hush that only sacred places knew how to keep. His footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor as he moved forward, past benches carved with the ghosts of whispered prayers.
Light filtered through stained glass, breaking against his black coat in fractured rainbows. Fragments of saints, frozen mid-sorrow, bled color across the polished tiles.
He didn't sit. Not yet.
Instead, he stood at the altar, eyes locked on the crucifix above—the outstretched arms, the nailed silence, the gaze carved in eternal grief. His voice broke into the stillness, low and uncertain, like speaking to someone who might no longer be listening.
"Is it punishment?"
A pause.
"For what I've done… or for what I couldn't do?"
At last, he lowered himself into the front pew. Elbows braced against his knees, hands clasped tight, as if holding something fragile from slipping away.
"I see him when I close my eyes," Matteo murmured, staring forward. "He smiles like nothing ever hurt him… like he's already forgiven me."
A tremor touched his jaw.
"But I haven't. I can't."
The silence answered him, not cold, but patient.
He leaned back, eyes drawn upward to the arches overhead where shadows curled like unanswered questions.
"I thought I could fix everything if I just controlled it. Keep him safe by staying untouchable." A faint, bitter laugh escaped him. "Turns out I didn't even know what he needed."
Then, softer, as if the words surprised even him:
"I need him to wake up."
His chest tightened. His eyes stung—not from tears, but from the weight of all he'd left unsaid.
"I'll do anything," he whispered. "I just… don't know what's left."
A distant chime rang from the tower, echoing through stone and air alike. A reminder that time kept moving, with or without him.
Matteo rose slowly, brushing a hand across the front of his coat. His steps carried no sharp command, no unshakable purpose—only plea.
Then—
A soft rustle.
From a side hallway, an old priest emerged. White hair combed back neatly, cassock worn but spotless. His eyes met Matteo's, steady and calm, holding the kind of understanding that didn't need explanation.
"You came early," the priest said gently, walking closer. "It's rare to see someone sit in silence for so long without asking anything."
Matteo inclined his head, jaw tight. "Maybe I was waiting for something to be said to me."
The priest smiled faintly. "And was it?"
Matteo's gaze faltered. "I'm not sure yet."
They stood in quiet understanding until the priest offered, "I'm Father Enzo. Would you like to light a candle?"
Matteo hesitated, then nodded once. "Yes… for someone who can't speak for himself."
They approached the side altar, where rows of small flames flickered inside glass holders. Matteo struck a match, his hand unsteady, and lit one carefully. He placed it at the front.
"For him," he whispered. "He was always light in places I couldn't see clearly."
Father Enzo said nothing, only watched with quiet respect.
Matteo's voice came again, rougher now. "He's in a coma. The doctors say trauma. But I—" He stopped, swallowing. "I think I caused it. Even if I didn't pull the trigger."
The priest regarded him with a gentleness carved by age. "Sometimes, the heaviest guilt is not from what we did… but from what we didn't do in time."
Matteo's hands curled at his sides. "I don't know what to do. My father says wait. My soul says act. But if I act…" His voice cracked against restraint. "Will he forgive me if I walk down that road again?"
"When we act from love," Father Enzo said quietly, "even our rage carries grief in its shadow. The real question isn't whether he'll forgive you—but whether you'll still recognize yourself afterward."
Their eyes met—Matteo stripped bare of masks, standing not as Don, but as a man unraveling.
Finally, Matteo drew an envelope from his coat pocket. He held it out. "It's not much. Maybe it doesn't count as faith… but it's something. Maybe gratitude for the fact he's still alive."
Father Enzo accepted it with a nod. "It all counts. Especially when it's given in silence."
Matteo inclined his head and turned to go.
But before he stepped away, the priest added softly, "Sometimes, the one we pray for feels it. Even if they can't respond."
Matteo froze.
And for the first time in days, he breathed deeper.
Without another word, he left, the candle's flame steady behind him.
The doors closed with a long creak, releasing him into the golden morning. Light spilled across the steps in sharp, warm lines. Matteo tightened his coat against the cool air and walked on. No car, no guards. Just his steps, unhurried.
At the corner of a quiet street near the hospital, a burst of color caught his eye.
Flowers.
Bundles of them, laid out in cheap paper and crinkled plastic. Roses, daisies, wildflowers wet with morning spray.
But it was the lilies that stilled him—white, fresh, dew still clinging to their petals.
Memory struck like sunlight.
Felix on the balcony, sleeves rolled up, humming as he watered potted plants. Fingers brushing petals as if they were fragile things worth protecting.
"You treat them like people," Matteo had once remarked, coffee in hand.
Felix had smiled, not looking up.
"They are. They just speak differently."
Matteo blinked hard, throat tightening.
He approached the stall.
"Good morning," the vendor greeted, her hands stained green, her eyes tired but kind. "Looking for something special?"
Matteo glanced over the blooms again, then pointed to the lilies.
"Those," he said. "How many do you have?"
"Enough for a proper handful," she said, already reaching for twine. "They're fresh."
He watched her wrap them, his fist tightening in his coat pocket.
When she passed the bouquet into his arm, she asked gently, "For someone you love?"
His gaze lingered on the lilies.
"Yes," he said softly. "And someone I miss… at the same time."
She smiled without prying. "Then they'll know."
Matteo gave a slight nod, murmured thanks, and continued walking.
Each step heavier with memory—yet steadier with resolve.