A Reason to Fight: Part Two

He was sitting in one of the pews when the church went quiet. The pleasant, light smell of incense was still in the air. The stained-glass windows cast soft colors on the stone walls, making the place feel calm and sad. His eyes went back to Lina, who had just walked in behind him. She sat in a corner with her head down and whispered a prayer. The older nun from before came over and whispered to her. Even though Shen couldn't hear what they were saying, he could see the tension in Lina's body and how tightly she held the plain cross on her lap. The elder put a hand on Lina's shoulder and then turned to leave her alone, his face hard but kind.

Lina's hands shook as she held the cross. He couldn't quite understand why her grief affected him so deeply and was a real force in the empty room.

It might help me to help her.

The idea was strange, even silly, but it wouldn't leave his mind. He had been lost for so long, avoiding relationships and not taking responsibility. It felt strange to think about doing something important now that I had this second chance at life.

As the sun set, the village was bathed in a soft orange and gray light. Shen walked toward the church. The gravel under his boots made a soft crunch with each steady, purposeful step. The soft rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a bird resting for the night replaced the distant chatter of the townspeople behind him.

As he got closer, the church's huge stone spires cast long shadows across the courtyard that looked like fingers reaching out to grab him. The worn stones of the building held up countless prayers and confessions, standing guard against the darkening sky.

Shen stopped at the door with his hand on the cold wrought-iron handle of the big wooden door. The atmosphere here was strange, heavy, and almost holy. He felt a familiar shiver down his spine, like the few seconds when his body had been very cold and the voice had asked him questions and made him face the heavy weight of his choices.

Shen opened the door and walked in. The hinges made a soft squeak that echoed through the empty room. It was a lonely sound that was soon drowned out by the soft evening breeze. There were rows of wooden pews in front of him, and the tops of the pews were dull from years of use. The altar at the other end of the sanctuary was surrounded by the soft, flickering glow of candles. The gilded edges caught the tiniest glimmers of the setting sun through a high, stained-glass window.

The sound reverberated through the immense emptiness as the wooden door slid shut behind him. The air inside felt thicker and colder, as if it were full of the worries and unspoken needs of everyone who had come before him. He stood still for a minute, letting his eyes get used to the soft light from the candles on the walls. The flames flickered and cast shadows all the way up to the vaulted ceiling.

The smell of incense, which is old and holy, hung in the air in smoky tendrils. Shen carefully stepped forward, and his boots made a soft tapping sound on the smooth stone floor. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the beautiful carvings on the walls that showed holy beings fighting, winning, judging, and making up for their sins. The walls themselves seemed to be watching him, with the carved eyes of saints and martyrs following him everywhere he went.

Shen's chest felt like it was tightening with worry. He thought that this place wasn't meant for me. It was built for people who believed in something bigger than themselves and lived for it.

He turned to look at the confession booth, which was in a dark corner and stood in silent defiance of the church's wealth with its simple wooden structure. He couldn't breathe as he stared at it for a long time. The weathered wood and small screen made it look like an average piece of furniture, but what it stood for was very important.

"What did your life mean?"

He stood here in this place of judgment and forgiveness, and the disembodied question echoed in his mind with a sense of urgency and weight. He imagined himself walking into the booth as the man he had been: a homeless person who didn't care about anything and wasn't impressive, whose actions had helped no one, not even himself, instead of as a penitent person asking for forgiveness.

Shen thought, "This is where people tell the truth," as he pressed his lips together. But are they really telling the truth, or are they just giving you the parts of the story that they think are okay?

Without asking, a memory of his death came to mind. The moment when everything had been taken from him and his whole life—or lack of it—had been laid bare. People had asked him about sin, judgment, and what his actions meant. The questions seemed more important and urgent here, in this sacred place.

Shen looked at the confession booth and had a sudden, harsh realization. "This is a home for people like me." Not the holy or the pious, but the ones running away from their doom, praying in hushed tones for a glimmer of hope.

His hands were in fists at his sides. Would I be brave enough to go in and tell everything? Just the plain truth about what I did, with no excuses or reasons?

A soft, steady scraping sound broke his train of thought. Shen looked at the altar and blinked. He hadn't seen her at first, but now he did. Lina was on her knees near the front, where it was dark.

Seeing her alone and focused on something made him feel strange. He went around a thick stone column to get a better view. She carefully cut intricate patterns into a wooden cross while holding a small blade with a sharp edge that shone in the candlelight. Her posture was stiff, and her movements were steady, almost meditative. It was clear that she was holding back a lot of sadness.

Shen stopped for a moment and looked at her from a distance. He wondered what those patterns meant to her. Were they prayers? Want something? Or maybe they wrote their confessions on wood because it hurt too much to say them out loud?

As he stood there in the dark, watching, his mind wandered again. What am I doing here? This time, the question came from a strange, growing curiosity about his own reasons instead of doubt. He had come here for some unknown reason, but now that he was in front of her, he didn't know what to do.

Lina stayed focused on her work and didn't look up. The soft crackle of the candle flames broke the silence between them, which was only broken by the soft sound of the blade scraping against wood. Shen's eyes stayed on her tiny, delicate-looking hands, which were always right.

Lina's hand shook as he looked at it. For a short time. She carefully put the knife down and took deep, shaky breaths as her shoulders rose and fell. Her fingers traced the new grooves she had made around the edge of the cross, as if looking for comfort in their familiar shape.

"Are you here for something?"

Her voice surprised him. There was a hint of tiredness in it, but it was steady and calm. She kept her eyes on the cross in her hands and didn't look up.

Shen stopped for a moment, and the silence grew longer as he tried to come up with something to say. "Uh..." he said in a voice that sounded like it was going to break. He looked around the empty church, as if the answer was hidden in its old walls. "My name is Shen." I heard that your name was Lina.

Finally, Lina looked up and their eyes met. In the dim light, her eyes were alert but tired, and her face was closed off as she looked him over. She said, "You're not from here." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

Shen blinked in surprise at how honest she was. "Why do you say that?"

In a neutral tone, she said, "You look out of place." For a moment, she looked at him, then she turned her attention back to the cross. "People from this town don't usually go into the church for no reason."

As he stroked the back of his neck, Shen's fingers brushed against the collar of his coat. "I guess you're right," he said. "I'm still trying to figure things out."

"Figuring things out," Something he couldn't quite put his finger on changed Lina's voice as she said it again. Sadness? Giving up? She picked up the knife again, but this time she was more careful and moved more slowly. "That sounds like something I've heard before."

Shen tilted his head to the side and looked at her closely. "What do you mean?"

For a long time, she didn't say anything. She steadied the cross with her fingers as the blade went back to its delicate work. Finally, her voice was softer than it had been before and could barely be heard over the church's murmurs.

"People come here for answers," she said, keeping eye contact. They come to pray, confess, and find peace. But asking doesn't bring about peace; acting does.

Shen's forehead furrowed when she said what she said. They felt heavier than she expected, as if they were meant for her as much as for him. He moved, and the small change caught her eye again.

He asked in a careful voice, "What about you?" "Are you looking for peace?"