Chapter 3

Knezha, Bulgaria

The cold in the house had a sound. Natasha had never noticed that before this winter. It was not just the wind slipping through the cracked boards of the roof or the thin walls that had not seen proper repairs in years. It was the quiet clicking of wood shrinking in the cold, the faint rattle of loose tin above the kitchen where the wind still tugged at the roof her mother had tried to fix. Tonight it was colder than usual.

Natasha sat at the small kitchen table in their house, staring at the last piece of bread. She pushed it toward Stefan.

“Eat.”

The boy shook his head.

“You didn’t eat.”

Stefan lowered his eyes and said nothing. He hasn't said a word after his mom died. Not a single one. Ever since the accident, he looked like trapped inside a prison of his own.

After a moment, he slowly broke the bread in half and pushed one piece back toward her. Neither of them spoke again.

The small iron stove in the corner had gone out days ago. There was no more wood. Natasha pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling. The dark patch above the kitchen table marked the place where water had dripped for weeks before the accident. Her chest tightened. She forced the thought away.

“Come on,” she said softly to Stefan. “We’re going to church.”

He didn’t question it. He never did.

The church was dim when they entered. A few candles burned quietly before the icons, and the air smelled of incense and beeswax—warm compared to the cold outside. Natasha breathed in slowly. Something in her chest loosened the moment she stepped inside the parish church.

The service had already begun. Father Georgi stood before the altar reading the Lenten prayers in a low, steady voice. The choir responded softly from the side. Stefan moved quietly to a bench near the wall. Natasha remained standing near the vigil lamp. The flame glowed through the red glass, steady and patient. She watched it for a long moment. How does it keep burning?

“Oil,” she remembered Father Georgi saying. Someone refills it.

Her stomach tightened again. Hunger had a way of returning quickly. She lowered her head, trying to pray, but her thoughts wandered—to the empty cupboard, to the unpaid electricity bill folded on the table, to the roof, to the terrible sound of the ladder falling. Her chest tightened again. God… I’m trying. She wasn’t even sure what she meant by that. Trying to believe. Trying not to be angry. Trying to keep Stefan safe. Trying not to fall apart.

The service continued slowly. When it ended, most of the parishioners left quickly, pulling their coats tight against the cold night. Natasha stayed behind to light one candle—a thin one, the cheapest. She placed it carefully before the icon of Christ.

“Natasha.” She turned. Father Georgi approached quietly. His eyes moved briefly toward Stefan sitting on the bench.

“Has he spoken at all?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “No.”

The priest nodded slowly and looked back at her face. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.” The answer came too quickly. He didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured toward the small bench near the wall.

“Walk with me for a moment.”

They sat. For a few seconds neither spoke. Finally, he asked a simple question.

“Is the house warm enough?”

Natasha stared at the floor. “Yes.” Another lie. He waited. The silence stretched long enough that her shoulders slowly sank.

“No,” she whispered. The word seemed to break something loose. “The roof is still open in one place. The stove… we ran out of wood 2 days ago.” Her hands twisted together. “I’m trying to fix things. I just need a little time.”

“And food?” he asked gently. She hesitated, then shook her head slightly. “We manage.”

Father Georgi did not react with surprise. He had already suspected. For two weeks he had noticed small things: the thin candles, her pale face, the way Stefan stared at the floor during services, the way Natasha rushed home immediately afterward. He leaned back and spoke carefully.

“There is something I would like to offer you.”

Natasha looked up quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“Let me finish.” His voice was gentle but firm. “In the parish house there is a small room. It used to belong to the old caretaker before he passed away. It is simple, but it is warm.”

Natasha stared at him. “You mean… live here?”

“For a while,” he said. “Until things become easier.”

Her first instinct was to refuse. “No, Father, I can’t—people will talk. And the house was my mother’s. I should stay there.”

“The Church has always been a home for those who have no home,” he said quietly. She felt her throat tighten. “I don’t want charity.”

“This isn’t charity.” He nodded toward the church around them. “You would help care for the church—cleaning, tending the candles, keeping the lamps filled with oil. Small things that must be done every day. It is responsibility.”

Natasha listened silently. “It would be work,” he continued gently. “Your responsibility.” She glanced toward Stefan. The boy sat quietly watching the flickering candles. His coat sleeves were too short for him now. She hadn’t noticed how much he had grown. Her chest tightened painfully.

“You would have your own space,” Father Georgi continued. “There is a stove. And two small beds. And every evening the church prepares a simple supper for those who help here. You and Stefan would eat with us.”

Natasha swallowed. “The house,” Father Georgi added gently after a moment, “you might consider selling it.”

She looked up sharply. “It is old, and it will take money to repair the roof. More than you should worry about right now. If you sold it, you could buy proper clothes, books—things Stefan needs.”

Natasha said nothing. Her thoughts spun quietly inside her. “I will think about it,” she said at last.

“Of course.” But even as the words left her mouth, Natasha already knew the truth. There were no other choices. Stefan needed warmth. Food. A place where the roof would not fall on their heads. She simply wasn’t ready to admit it out loud yet.

They stood together. Before leaving, Natasha walked once more to the vigil lamp. The flame glowed softly in the red glass.

“So small,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Father Georgi said beside her. “But persistent and it burns through the whole night.”

She watched it carefully. “Because someone refills the oil.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

For a moment neither spoke. Then Natasha whispered something she didn’t expect. “Maybe we’re the lamp.”

Father Georgi looked at her with quiet warmth. “Yes. And sometimes the Church is the oil.”

Natasha stood there a long time before leaving. Outside, the cold night waited. But tonight, for the first time since her mother’s death, the darkness did not feel quite as endless. Behind her, in the quiet church of Knezha, the lamp before the icon continued to burn—steady, patient, waiting.