Chapter 19 — The Lamp That Would Not Die

Natasha kept her eyes lowered as she moved from one lamp to the next, careful not to spill the oil as she poured. The small flame in each glass flickered briefly when disturbed, then steadied again, as if nothing had happened. The rhythm of the work was familiar—something she had done countless times before—but today it offered no comfort. Her hands continued their task, but her mind remained elsewhere, caught in the lingering shadow of the dream.

She could still see it.

Not like a memory, but like something pressed against her thoughts from the inside, refusing to fade.

The figure. The dark one. The priest.

Even now, she could picture him clearly—the ruined robes clinging to his form, the earth and decay tangled into the fabric as if he had risen from beneath the ground itself. The way his mouth had hung open, impossibly wide, as though something inside him had broken long ago and never healed. And the eyes… or rather, the absence of them. Those hollow, endless voids that seemed to pull everything inward, swallowing light, swallowing meaning.

She paused, her hand tightening slightly around the small metal container.

He had not attacked her. That was what she could not understand.

He had come closer, slowly, painfully, as though each step required effort, and then—he had held something out to her.

The old leather book. His journal. His name stamped deep in the weathered leather on the cover.

Natasha swallowed, her throat was suddenly dry.

She could still feel it in her hands—the weight of it, the coldness of the leather, the unnatural dampness that had clung to it as though it had been pulled from somewhere it did not belong. It had not felt like an object meant for the living.

And yet… he had given it to her.

Why?

Her breath faltered slightly.

Because he wanted to…Or because he had to.

The thought sent a quiet chill through her.

She moved again, forcing herself to continue her work, though the motions had become slower, less certain.

And then there was the other figure.

The light.

Her father.

Natasha closed her eyes for a brief moment.

She wasn’t sure she could say that.

It had felt like him. That was what made it unbearable. The presence, the warmth, the way the fear had loosened the moment he drew near—it had all been so familiar, so deeply known that it bypassed thought entirely and settled somewhere beneath it, in a place where doubt could not easily reach.

And its voice.

“I love you, my little popcorn.”

No one else had ever said those words.

No one.

Her chest tightened.

If it had not been him… then what had it been?

Something that knew him? Something that knew her?

The oil in her hand tilted slightly, spilling a thin line across the metal rim of the lamp. Natasha quickly adjusted, steadying herself, though her fingers trembled faintly.

She exhaled slowly.

“Focus,” she whispered under her breath, more to anchor herself than anything else.

There was work to be done.

There were things that were real.

Or at least, things that were supposed to be.

She moved toward the icon of the Theotokos, her steps quieter now, almost hesitant. The soft glow of the lamp before it cast a gentle light across the painted face, illuminating the calm, watchful expression that had always brought her a sense of quiet reassurance.

Natasha reached for the lamp automatically.

Then stopped.

Something was wrong.

She frowned and leaned closer, lifting it slightly from its place. The glass was warm—warmer than it should have been—but when she tilted it, there was no movement inside. No shimmer of liquid. No resistance.

Empty.

Completely empty.

And yet the flame burned.

It did not flicker like a dying flame, nor shrink as it should have without oil—it burned with a steady, quiet certainty, as if it had no need for anything at all. She stared at it, her brows drawing together.

“That’s not possible,” she murmured.

She held it closer, examining it more carefully, as though she might discover some hidden explanation if she only looked long enough. But there was nothing. No trick of the light. No hidden oil. Nothing to sustain what she was seeing.

The flame flickered slightly, then straightened again, calm and unwavering.

Natasha hesitated, then leaned forward and blew softly across it.

The flame bent, thinning under her breath—

—and then returned to its place, unchanged.

Her unease deepened.

She tried again, this time with more force, her breath sharper, more deliberate. Just like when as a kid she tried to blow the candles of the small cake her mom had made for her birthday.

Still nothing.

The flame remained.

Steady.

Untouched.

A strange sensation settled over her then—it wasn’t fear, or something close to it. Just a quiet, creeping awareness that what she was looking at did not belong within the order of things she understood.

Slowly, she placed the lamp back before the icon.

For a moment, she considered refilling it anyway, simply to restore some sense of normalcy. But something in her resisted the idea.

Let it go out on its own, she thought.

She stepped back.

But even as she turned away, she felt it behind her—the presence of that small, impossible flame continuing to burn where it should not.

By the time the first parishioners began to arrive for the evening service, Natasha had not managed to shake the feeling that had settled inside her.

It was not just her.

She saw it in them too.

At first, it was subtle—the way people entered more quietly than usual, the way their voices dropped instinctively, as though they were afraid of being overheard by something they could not see. But as more arrived, the pattern became clearer.

They were uneasy.

Not frightened, not openly—but unsettled in a way that had no obvious cause.

Natasha lingered near the side, watching them, noticing the glances exchanged between neighbors, the half-finished sentences, the murmured words that seemed to dissolve before they could fully form.

Something had changed.

She approached one of the women she had known for years, someone steady, grounded, not easily shaken.

“Is something wrong?” Natasha asked quietly.

The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking briefly toward the others before returning to Natasha.

“We’ve been hearing it,” the woman continued. “For the past couple of days. Not all the time… but enough.”

“Hearing what…”

The woman shook her head.

“A bell. That’s just it. No one knows where the sound comes from. Sometimes it sounds far away. Sometimes…” She paused, her expression tightening slightly. “Sometimes it sounds like it’s right beneath us.”

Natasha’s breath caught.

“And it doesn’t sound right,” the woman added. “Not like any bell I’ve heard before. Sometimes it’s quiet and sometimes it’s loud. People are getting scared”

Natasha nodded slowly, though her thoughts had already begun to race ahead.

It was spreading.

Not just her.

Not just in her dreams.

She found Father Georgi shortly after, near the front of the church, his movements measured, but his expression more distant than usual.

“Father,” she said, her voice quieter now, “I need to ask you something.”

He turned toward her, studying her for a moment before nodding.

“What is it?”

She hesitated only briefly.

“Why did you tell me there was no bell in the catacombs?”

The question seemed to settle heavily between them.

Georgi exhaled slowly, as though he had been expecting it.

“There wasn’t,” he said. “Not for a long time.”

Natasha frowned.

“But there is one now,” she said.

He met her gaze.

“Yes,” he replied. “There is.”

A chill passed through her.

He continued, more carefully now.

“There was a bell, years ago. It was kept in a sealed room beneath the church. After what happened… a horrible tragedy.”

“Two people died,” Georgi said quietly. “At once. Quickly.”

“The bell cracked from the impact and wasn’t able to ring again without being repaired”

He hesitated.“But after that… no one wanted to hear that bell again anyways.” He continued calmly.

“It was then decided by Father Ivan and the bell was stored in a chamber underneath the church. Same room you found it in a few days ago.”

“What happened to it then?” she asked.

“It disappeared,” he said simply.

Natasha stared at him.

“No one knows how. It was there one day… and gone the next. I asked everywhere. There was no sign of it. Nobody knew a thing.”

“And now it’s back,” she said quietly. The unease did not leave her. If anything, it settled deeper.

“Yes.”

The word lingered.

“And I have no explanation for that.”

Natasha felt the weight of his uncertainty, and for the first time, she understood that this was not something he could guide her through.

He did not understand it either.

After a minute has past, Father Georgi looked at her and said:

“I must ask you something too. The journal…the one from the old priest that was in charge when the bell incident happened”

Georgi’s face expression changed. It looked old and tired. Deep lines stretched across his entire forehead.

“It’s missing,” he said.

A sharp, almost physical reaction moved through her.

“I saw Stefan take it; he stole it from the archive. I saw him do it.” he added. “I need to find out why he did that.”

“I need your help to get it back. I need to know, I need to understand.”

The world seemed to narrow for a moment.

Stefan.

The journal.

The priest in her dream, holding it out to her.

Not random. Not separate. Connected. All of it.

Natasha steadied herself, though she felt the ground beneath her certainty begin to shift.

“I’ll help” she said.

Georgi looked at her carefully, as though weighing something unspoken.

“Thank you, it would be best if you talked with him about it”

“I know,” she said. “I will.”

He nodded, though concern remained in his eyes.

She said nothing more.

Not about the dream.

Not about her father.

Not about the figure of light that had spoken with a voice, she could never mistake.

Those things remained hers.

For now.

Later that night, after the church had emptied and the last of the candles had been extinguished, Natasha walked slowly back through the nave.

The silence felt heavier now. Not peaceful.

Watching.

She stopped again before the icon.

The lamp was still burning. Brighter than before. The flame stood taller, steadier, casting a clearer light across the face of the Theotokos.

Natasha stepped closer.

The container remained empty. There was no mistaking it. Nothing fed the flame. Nothing sustained it. And yet it burned.

She stood there for a long moment, her thoughts quieting, not because she had found answers, but because something in her had begun to accept that answers might not come easily.

Tomorrow, she will talk to Stefan.

Tomorrow, she will take the journal.

Tomorrow, she will begin to understand.

Or at least, she will try.

She turned to leave.

Behind her, the flame flickered once—

then steadied again, stronger than before.