The silence is thick, not from absence but from reverence.
Candles flicker like hesitant thoughts, unsure whether to burn or to retreat.
The walls breathe centuries of longing, and still the air holds something fragile, unspoken.
There, behind the colored glass, a soul rests. Not quite kneeling, not quite rising.
Only listening.
To the echo of rituals, to the shadows of dogma,
to the idea that peace might live only within these carved and holy confines.
But somewhere, a thread of light pierces through.
And in that thread, a flutter. Quiet, but insistent.
Faith, no longer recited, no longer confined.
Not yet free, but learning.
Its first flight unfolding in the softest rebellion.
Not against the sacred,
but beyond the cage of stained light.
