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It’s been six weeks since Sólmina last spoke to him.

Thin, red lines interrupted the image of his tired eyes, the same eyes that used to be gleaming with hope and happiness every Sunday morning after church. It was a ritual he loved dearly, but now it was a pathetic attempt at regaining the connection he once had. The only one.

The church of Sólmina was not one to be taken lightly. She would always choose a peasant for the role of Priest, never a noble nor a royal. It was as if her grace had a preference, one that would never be denied and would only be worn with pride by those who were born with a humble heart.

He loved her. He has always loved her. Ever since he was a child, he dreamed of her. She’d sing lullabies, open windows to small moments in the world he inhabited, and most importantly of all, she’d listen. Sólmina had always been a good listener and would often reply with time. His hands were shaking, he was shaking as he reached up, his eyes never leaving the stone statue of her, enamoured by the calm, loving expression it wore while his hands rested over the rough surface of her giving hands, feeling the slight cracks and the wear made by those who had finished their prayers.

—    My beloved… where are you? —, he spoke, his voice reverberating across the vastness of the empty church. A stinging feeling in his eyes reminded him of his humanity, and as the tears slid down his pale face, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was it.

CRACK! His gaze shot down with confusion and surprise, and as he processed what had just happened, a dry chuckle left his lips. — Oh… the middle finger… My dear, forgive me. I should have noticed your poor state. Do not fret. I will fix this immediately, — every word held such reverence, such obsession and desperation that it made the farmer’s daughter standing at the door retreat to her ranch with her eyes wide open and on the floor. She regretted having set foot inside that place. The mud sucked at her boots, each step a wet gasp as she fled. Last night’s rain had turned the road into a river of grime, and the wind carried the scent of damp soil and something sharper—iron, or fear.

She needed that church. The banns would be posted soon, and the priest’s blessing was the only thing standing between her and a marriage that tasted like ash on her tongue. But the thought of Sólmina’s gaze—alive, hungry—locked onto her again made her stomach twist. Its smile had been stretched too wide, almost mocking, and statues weren’t supposed to move. They didn’t lean closer.