2 hours ago
Quillon often drifted into silent isolation after preaching.
Two new Seekers had entered the Temple under his instruction, and the words he’d spoken at the camp still echoed in his mind. Servitude. Ascension. Grace through action. He’d given the sermon with conviction, but the image of a woman kneeling beside him in the cold, wrapping his bleeding hand with care, lingered longer than the scripture. He tried to dismiss the thought. But it kept returning, unfolding in fragments. Her voice. Her touch. Her eyes.
By dark, he shed the Brotherhood’s mantle and left the Temple in plain clothes: jeans, heavy boots, and a charcoal coat buttoned high against the cold. No one stopped him. No one ever did.
The subway swallowed him whole. He boarded without speaking, chose no destination, and let the tunnels carry him. His attention flicked to his wallet, scrolling through the digital clutter of apps and notifications, but none of it held his focus. When the train hissed to a stop, he stood and stepped off without thinking.
Only once he reached the surface did he realize how late it was. The street was quiet. Snow drifted through the air, slow and silent. He slipped his gloved hands into his coat pockets and walked, directionless but deliberate, his breath fogging faintly in front of him.
The sound of a bell cut the stillness. He paused. Across the street, the doors of a church swung open, releasing a tide of congregants into the night. They spilled out quickly, a wave of warm bodies in thick coats and tired shoes. He watched them from the shadows of a closed café. The murmured laughter, the brief embraces, the shuffling of boots on salted concrete. It all felt strange to him. Familiar, but distant. So many drawn to a building by nothing more than belief.
Quillon tilted his head, watching as they dispersed. He had never been moved by religion, not in the way they were. Not by psalms or pews or promises of salvation. And yet, he served the Brotherhood with unwavering devotion. Was that belief?
He turned to leave, questions forming without answers, but then paused. A few stragglers had split from the main crowd and disappeared into a side yard behind the church. No signs. No lights.
Quillon crossed the street without sound. He stood at the gate, half-hidden behind iron bars, and listened.
Two new Seekers had entered the Temple under his instruction, and the words he’d spoken at the camp still echoed in his mind. Servitude. Ascension. Grace through action. He’d given the sermon with conviction, but the image of a woman kneeling beside him in the cold, wrapping his bleeding hand with care, lingered longer than the scripture. He tried to dismiss the thought. But it kept returning, unfolding in fragments. Her voice. Her touch. Her eyes.
By dark, he shed the Brotherhood’s mantle and left the Temple in plain clothes: jeans, heavy boots, and a charcoal coat buttoned high against the cold. No one stopped him. No one ever did.
The subway swallowed him whole. He boarded without speaking, chose no destination, and let the tunnels carry him. His attention flicked to his wallet, scrolling through the digital clutter of apps and notifications, but none of it held his focus. When the train hissed to a stop, he stood and stepped off without thinking.
Only once he reached the surface did he realize how late it was. The street was quiet. Snow drifted through the air, slow and silent. He slipped his gloved hands into his coat pockets and walked, directionless but deliberate, his breath fogging faintly in front of him.
The sound of a bell cut the stillness. He paused. Across the street, the doors of a church swung open, releasing a tide of congregants into the night. They spilled out quickly, a wave of warm bodies in thick coats and tired shoes. He watched them from the shadows of a closed café. The murmured laughter, the brief embraces, the shuffling of boots on salted concrete. It all felt strange to him. Familiar, but distant. So many drawn to a building by nothing more than belief.
Quillon tilted his head, watching as they dispersed. He had never been moved by religion, not in the way they were. Not by psalms or pews or promises of salvation. And yet, he served the Brotherhood with unwavering devotion. Was that belief?
He turned to leave, questions forming without answers, but then paused. A few stragglers had split from the main crowd and disappeared into a side yard behind the church. No signs. No lights.
Quillon crossed the street without sound. He stood at the gate, half-hidden behind iron bars, and listened.
![[Image: Quillon-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/07/Quillon-signature.jpg)