A Reason to Fight: Part Two

The silence of the church had enveloped him as he sat in one of the pews, the faint, sweet scent of incense lingering in the air. Muted colors from the stained-glass windows painted the stone walls, a scene of quiet solemnity. His gaze had wandered back to Lina, who had entered moments after him. She sat in a corner, her head bowed as she whispered a prayer. The older nun from earlier approached her, speaking in hushed tones. Though Shen couldn’t hear their words, he saw the tension coil in Lina’s body, the way her hands tightened around the simple cross in her lap. The elder placed a hand on Lina’s shoulder, her expression firm but not unkind, before walking away, leaving Lina to her solitude.

Shen watched as Lina clutched the cross, her fingers trembling. Her sorrow was a palpable force in the cavernous room, and for reasons he couldn’t fully comprehend, it resonated deep within him.

Maybe helping her would help me.

The idea was strange, almost absurd, but it clung to his thoughts with a stubborn persistence. For so long, he had drifted, avoiding connections and shirking responsibility. But now, faced with this second chance at life, the prospect of doing something—anything—of consequence felt strangely right. For the first time since his return, Shen felt a glimmer of purpose. It wasn't clear, and it wasn't certain, but it was enough to compel him to take the first step.

The dim light of dusk washed over the town in muted shades of orange and gray as Shen made his way toward the church. His steps were slow and deliberate, each one accompanied by the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots. The distant murmur of townsfolk faded behind him, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a bird settling in for the night.

As he drew closer, the church's tall stone spires loomed overhead, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers across the courtyard. The building stood as a solemn sentinel against the darkening sky, its weathered stones seeming to bear the weight of countless prayers and confessions offered up through the ages.

Shen paused at the entrance, his hand resting on the cool, wrought-iron handle of the heavy wooden door. The air here felt different—thicker, almost sacred. A familiar chill traced its way down his spine, reminiscent of the fleeting moments when his body had gone extremely cold, when the voice had questioned him, forcing him to confront the staggering weight of his choices.

Pushing the door open, Shen stepped inside. The faint creak of the hinges reverberated through the cavernous space, a lonely sound that soon blended with the soft rustle of the evening breeze. Rows of wooden pews stretched before him, their surfaces polished to a dull sheen by years of use. At the far end of the sanctuary, the altar stood bathed in the soft, flickering glow of candles, its gilded edges catching the faintest glimmers of the fading sun that filtered through a high, stained-glass window.

The wooden door swung shut behind him, the sound echoing through the vast emptiness. The air inside was cooler, heavier, as though saturated with the unspoken pleas and burdens of all who had come before him. For a moment, he stood frozen, his eyes adjusting to the dim light cast by the candles that lined the walls, their dancing flames stretching shadows high into the vaulted ceiling.

The smoky tendrils of incense clung to the air, an ancient and holy scent. Shen took a cautious step forward, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. His gaze wandered across the space, taking in the intricately carved reliefs that adorned the walls—scenes of divine figures locked in battle, moments of triumph, judgment, and redemption. It felt as though the walls themselves were watching him, the carved eyes of saints and martyrs following his every move.

A knot of unease tightened in Shen’s chest. This place wasn’t made for someone like me, he thought. It was built for those who believed, for those who lived for something greater than themselves.

His attention shifted to the confession booth tucked away in a shadowed corner, its unassuming wooden structure standing in quiet defiance of the church’s grandeur. He stared at it for a long moment, his breath catching in his throat. It looked ordinary—worn wood, a small screen for anonymity—but it carried the profound weight of what it represented.

"What purpose did your life serve?"

The disembodied question echoed in his memory, feeling more urgent now, its weight pressing down on him as he stood in this place of judgment and absolution. He imagined himself stepping into the booth, not as a penitent seeking forgiveness, but as the man he had been—a drifter, indifferent and unremarkable, whose actions had served no one, least of all himself.

This is where people spill their truths, Shen thought, his lips pressing into a thin line. But is it really truth they offer—or just the carefully curated fragments they deemed worthy of absolution?

A flicker of memory surfaced, unbidden: his death. The moment he had been stripped of everything, when the totality of his life—or lack thereof—had been laid bare. He’d been asked about judgment, about sin, about the meaning of his actions. Here, in this sacred space, the questions felt heavier, more immediate.

This is a house for people like me, Shen realized with a start, his gaze fixed on the confession booth. Not the holy, not the righteous, but the ones running from their fates, clawing for a shred of salvation in whispered prayers.

His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Would I even have the courage to walk in there and spill everything? Not the excuses, not the justifications—just the raw, unvarnished truth of what I’ve done? He doubted it.

A faint, rhythmic scraping sound broke his train of thought. Shen blinked, his head turning toward the altar. He hadn't noticed her at first, but now he saw her. Kneeling near the front, almost lost in the gloom, was Lina.

The sight of her—alone, focused—struck him in a way he couldn't explain. He rounded a thick stone column for a better view. She held a small blade, its edge glinting faintly in the candlelight as she meticulously carved intricate patterns into a wooden cross. Her movements were steady, almost meditative, but there was a tension in her posture—a rigidity that spoke of a sorrow held tightly within.

Shen hesitated, watching her from a distance. The intricate designs she etched into the wood seemed purposeful, as if each stroke of the blade carried an unspoken meaning. He wondered what those patterns meant to her. Were they prayers? Hopes? Or perhaps confessions, carved into wood because speaking them aloud was simply too painful?

As he stood there, an observer in the shadows, he found his thoughts drifting again. What am I even doing here? The question wasn't born of doubt this time, but of a strange, burgeoning curiosity about his own intentions. He had come here, drawn by an impulse he couldn’t quite name, but now that he stood before her, he wasn't sure what to do next.

Lina didn’t look up, her focus remaining entirely on her work. The soft scrape of the blade against wood was the only sound that filled the silence between them, punctuated by the faint crackle of candle flames. Shen’s gaze lingered on her hands—small and seemingly delicate, yet unwavering in their precision.

As he watched, Lina’s hand faltered. Just for a second. She set the blade down carefully, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep, shaky breath. Her fingers brushed the edge of the cross, tracing the fresh grooves she had carved as though seeking comfort in their familiar shape.

"Are you here for something?"

Her voice startled him. It was quiet but steady, carrying the faintest edge of weariness. She didn’t look up, her attention still fixed on the cross in her hands.

Shen hesitated, the silence stretching as he searched for words. "I…" he began, his voice rough. He glanced around the empty church, as though the answer might be hidden in its ancient walls. "I am Shen. I heard your name was Lina."

Lina finally raised her head, her gaze meeting his. Her expression was guarded, her eyes tired but sharp, assessing him in the dim light. "You’re not from here," she said. It was a statement, not a question.

Shen blinked, caught off guard by her directness. "What makes you say that?"

"You look out of place," she replied simply, her tone neutral. Her gaze lingered on him for another moment before shifting back to the cross. "And people from this town don’t usually walk into the church without a reason."

Shen rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the collar of his coat. "I guess you’re right," he admitted. "I’m still… figuring things out."

"'Figuring things out,'" Lina echoed softly, her voice tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. Sadness? Resignation? She picked up the blade again, her movements slower now, more hesitant. "That sounds familiar."

Shen tilted his head, watching her carefully. "What do you mean?"

For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Her focus returned to the cross, her fingers steadying it as the blade resumed its delicate work. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter than before, barely rising above the whispers of the church.

"People come here for answers," she said, her eyes still on her task. "They come to pray, to confess, to find peace. But peace doesn’t come from asking—it comes from acting."

Shen’s brow furrowed at her words. They carried an unexpected weight, as though they were meant as much for herself as they were for him. He shifted his stance, the subtle movement drawing her attention once more.

"What about you?" he asked, his voice careful. "Are you looking for peace?"