Guren stopped in front of the entrance doors, which were left ajar, casting a pale beam of light into the church's shadowed interior. I stood just behind her, my breath held, suspended in that quiet moment. She released my hand and then said something I would never forget: "This world is a cruel place Seànn, people die, I will die at some point too, but you should never forget people you love." Her words felt like a weight pressing down on me, and I realized I had to keep up with her strength, her resolve. So, I nodded silently, the gesture more a pact with myself than her, a sign of acceptance.
She pushed the heavy oak doors with a forceful kick, their groaning protest echoing through the vast, empty space. The evening sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, their once-vibrant colors now dulled by age, but still casting a faint glow over the encaustic tiles that lined the floor. The walls, a stark white, stood in contrast to the weathered beauty of the church, their quiet strength framing the hollow air around us.
But there was a change in the air, an unfamiliar pungency that hit us the moment we stepped inside. The sharp, acrid scent of burning phosphorus filled the air, overpowering and unsettling. It altered the very atmosphere of the church, a place that had once been steeped in the familiar blend of incense and tallow, the comforting odor that never seemed to change from church to church. That smell had been a part of our childhood, a constant reminder of the hours spent here with our parents. But now, all that remained was a stark emptiness.
We lowered our eyes, gazing at the dozen racks of votive candles, their flickering flames struggling to stay alive in their small glass holders. The soft, colored glow—red and blue—flickered like distant embers in the dimness of the abandoned structure. Despite the seeming emptiness, the flames continued their quiet dance, casting fragile shadows across the cold stone floor. But the atmosphere felt wrong, unnatural—like a ghost of the place we once knew. Without our parents, the candles felt almost insulting in their persistence, their tiny flames burning with a hollow resilience, as though time had stopped for them while everything else had irrevocably shifted. Their warmth seemed a cruel mockery of the absence that now filled the space, an illusion that nothing had truly changed. But we both knew, deep in our hearts, that it had.
Tears welled up, and before long, they were streaming down our faces. What we had once treasured, what we had once felt safe within, was now only a fading memory—a shadow of sorrow that lingered deep within our minds. Even after all these years, it still felt strange to lose something that had been so integral to us, like losing a limb or a piece of yourself that you can never get back. The sorrow that I had thought was buried long ago resurfaced, bringing with it a flood of tears, more than any dam could ever hold.
In retrospect, I realized that the emptiness in my heart had opened my mind to something I had never truly considered: death. I wasn't afraid of it anymore. In fact, I found it strangely fascinating. Where do we go when we die? Does Heaven or Hell exist? What do we really know about reincarnation or transcendence...
Working at the factory, I had found myself surrounded by older workers—some of them had lived through the devastation of the Gan virus infection that practically erased more than half of world population decades earlier. It was a part of history they wore on their faces, on their bodies, in their stories.
The first few months had been difficult. I felt isolated, like an outsider, surrounded by people whose lives were so different from mine. The age gap was daunting—fifty years or more separated me from most of my colleagues, and our interests seemed worlds apart. But with time, my performance improved, and slowly, they began to notice my hard work. One step at a time, I earned their respect. Eventually, I wasn't just the young new hire anymore—I became, in a way, everyone's friend and well-respected co-worker.
They were an extraordinary group of people, each with a unique personality, a varied life story. Some had come to the factory by as a last resort, others were working there for generations, they all had something fascinating to share. The stories they told—unbelievable tales of survival, of change, of resilience—were like stepping into another time.
But what struck me most was their casual attitude toward death. I had expected it to be a taboo subject, something people avoided. Instead, it was as if death was just another part of the conversation, a fact of life that they didn't shy away from. "Did you hear about Jonas? He died of a heart attack last week," one would say, and the other would respond with a casual, "Yeah, he was in his late sixties, smoked and drank like a fish—what did he expect?" And they would both chuckle, before returning to their work as if the conversation had been no more than idle gossip.
The days stretched on endlessly, yet they weren't without their moments of levity. I found myself drawn to the banter, the heated arguments that seemed to erupt over the smallest things, where everyone would jump in, their voices rising with a fervor that made every disagreement feel monumental. It was in those moments that I felt a sense of connection, as if the intensity of their emotions was a reminder that we were alive, still engaging in the world around us. One of my favorite topics of discussion was transcendence.
Despite my mother's deep Christian faith, she was also a self-employed spiritualist, with an extensive library of books on the subject that filled the corners of our home. She had always hoped I would follow in her footsteps, taking over her practice when she retired. By the time I was twelve, I had read every book on her shelves, immersing myself in the mysteries of the soul, the afterlife, and the forces beyond. I was meant to be her assistant, her successor. But somewhere along the way, the weight of it all had shifted, and those teachings became something more—an anchor and a burden I hadn't yet fully understood.
Ironically, the loss of my parents had given me a kind of freedom of speech that I never had before. The older workers, who had once dismissed the opinions of younger people, now listened to me. They valued my input, respected my ideas. But I couldn't help feeling a little resentful. They had rejected us so many times before, simply because we were young, because we hadn't lived long enough to have the wisdom, they thought we needed.
It didn't take long for me to understand the reason behind that silent barrier. It was jealousy. The veterans were paid two or three times more than we were, but they were tired, their bodies worn down by years of labor. They had experience, but we had the energy. We worked harder, longer, faster, and for a fraction of the pay.
Two of my favorite coworkers, Anissa and Ismael, both in their late sixties, once told me that time had become a burden for them. It wasn't something to be celebrated or cherished anymore. For them, time was simply a countdown to their inevitable end. Without work, they said, they were just waiting to fade away, like dust scattered by the wind. Their words stayed with me, stirring something deep inside me, opening my eyes to the fragility of life and, for the first time, revealing my greatest fear: solitude.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the empty space, the flickering flames of a dozen candles casting their fragile light like the last remnants of a dying star. I wiped my swollen eyes, the salt of my tears mixing with the weight of everything left unsaid. When I spoke, my voice was steady, though the resolve behind it felt like a thin veil over the trembling uncertainty beneath: "You're the only family I got left, Guren. You've always been there for me, supported me, covered for my mistakes... No matter what happens, I will always be by your side. I promise."
She wiped her tears away and laughed, that familiar, warm laugh that only she had. "I'm proud of having the smartest, clumsiest, idiot of a sister with the biggest heart in the world who loves me so much."
We stayed in the church much longer than we expected. The time had come to leave, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were saying goodbye—not just to our parents, but to everything that had once been a part of us. The memories we had were engraved in our hearts, but we couldn't stay.
Guren struck the match, and together we lit the candles—one for each member of the family, just as we always had. We watched the tiny flames flicker to life, growing golden in the dimming light, a quiet testament to all that we had lost and all we still carried with us.
As dusk fell, the air around us grew still, and the flames became our only source of light. Slowly, they began to dim, the wax melting down to nothing, leaving us in complete darkness.
A month later, we made the decision to leave school and quit our jobs. There was no clear plan, no destination in mind—just the overwhelming need to leave our hometown behind. We didn't know where we were headed, only that we wanted to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the place we once called home. It was a quiet rebellion, a desperate attempt to move away from the weight of the past, to find something, anything, that felt like a new beginning.