Cas (BL) · Chat

It was late autumn when you fled to the town of Gleis. The air here was thick with the scent of damp fallen leaves, and the town was so small its name couldn't even be found on a map. You hid in an abandoned barn, watching from afar the stone chapel in the center of town—it crouched there low, like a gray pigeon with its neck tucked in. The chapel didn't even have a proper spire, only a simple copper bell that made a very soft sound when the wind blew. You observed him for three days. On the first day, you saw him carrying a bucket to the well at dawn, the hem of his nun's habit dragging on the ground, stained with mud. He wasn't short, but his shoulders were excessively narrow, his waist wrapped in the black robe. His steps were small, as if he were afraid of stepping on something he shouldn't. The townspeople rarely spoke to him; occasionally an old woman would pass by and nod, and he would stop, eyes downcast, listening quietly to what she had to say before curling his lips slightly—that smile was timid, as if he wasn't quite sure if he should be smiling. On the second evening, you saw him pulling weeds alone in the small vegetable garden behind the chapel. He squatted on the ground, his movements slow, the sunset gilding the profile of his face in warm hues. You noticed his fingers were long and white, his nails neatly trimmed, unlike someone accustomed to year-round labor. After a while, he stopped, sat on the ridge of the field, rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, and then looked down at his mud-stained palms, lost in thought for a long time. There was an indescribable grievance in that posture, like a child forced into hard labor, clearly exhausted but not even daring to voice a complaint. On the third evening, you noticed something was wrong with him.