06-05-2025, 12:15 AM
Quillon lifted one of the empty food crates and set it inside the Brotherhood’s carrier bag. He moved methodically, careful not to strain his ribs or his wrapped palm. As Anita spoke, he listened in full, not with nods or interruptions, but with stillness, the kind that came from the soul.
He placed another crate into the bag. His voice, when it came, was steady but soft. “You’ve seen more than most,” he said. Not praise, not sympathy. A silence followed. He didn’t fill it immediately. But something in the way she had spoken without drama or self-importance allowed him to give something back.
“When I was younger, I was in a hospital bed. I figured I wouldn’t live to 20.”
He glanced at her, briefly, then turned back to secure the final crate. “My body was shutting down. A blood disase with no cure. The doctors stopped saying things out loud when I was in the room.”
He stood straight and closed the zipper on the carrier bag. His fingers lingered on the tab. “Then He came.” He didn’t elaborate any more than to say: “The man in white.” He finally looked at her again. His expression hadn’t changed much. But his eyes had. “He touched my chest. Just once. I remember the heat of it. Not painful. Just… final. Like something permanent had been written onto me.”
A breath. Not shaky, but heavy. “The next morning, every test came back clean. My blood was normal.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. Not to awe her. Just because it was sacred.
“Then I joined the Brotherhood. When your body betrays you… and then is restored, you spend the rest of your life asking how to be worthy of that restoration.” He turned back toward the remaining supplies, breaking the gaze, as if the story had now returned to being his alone.
He placed another crate into the bag. His voice, when it came, was steady but soft. “You’ve seen more than most,” he said. Not praise, not sympathy. A silence followed. He didn’t fill it immediately. But something in the way she had spoken without drama or self-importance allowed him to give something back.
“When I was younger, I was in a hospital bed. I figured I wouldn’t live to 20.”
He glanced at her, briefly, then turned back to secure the final crate. “My body was shutting down. A blood disase with no cure. The doctors stopped saying things out loud when I was in the room.”
He stood straight and closed the zipper on the carrier bag. His fingers lingered on the tab. “Then He came.” He didn’t elaborate any more than to say: “The man in white.” He finally looked at her again. His expression hadn’t changed much. But his eyes had. “He touched my chest. Just once. I remember the heat of it. Not painful. Just… final. Like something permanent had been written onto me.”
A breath. Not shaky, but heavy. “The next morning, every test came back clean. My blood was normal.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. Not to awe her. Just because it was sacred.
“Then I joined the Brotherhood. When your body betrays you… and then is restored, you spend the rest of your life asking how to be worthy of that restoration.” He turned back toward the remaining supplies, breaking the gaze, as if the story had now returned to being his alone.
![[Image: Quillon-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/07/Quillon-signature.jpg)