Chapter 1

Knezha, Bulgaria

The church in Knezha was dimmer during Great Lent.

Not physically — the same candles burned — but the light felt quieter, as if even flame observed the fast.

Natasha stood beneath the icon of the Theotokos, her head covered in her mother’s dark scarf. She had begun wearing it since the funeral, not from piety but because it still carried the faint scent of her mother’s soap.

The Great Canon of Saint Andrew was being read for the third night.

Father Georgi’s voice moved steadily through the long lamentations. He did not dramatize the words. He read them as if they belonged to him personally.

“I have rivaled in transgression Adam the first-formed…”

Natasha listened, arms folded.

Her mother had stood in this same place every Lent. Always here. Always upright during the long readings. Always bowing deeply at “Have mercy on me, O God.”

And now she was gone.

Not in theory. Not in abstraction. In the earth.

The church continued.

The Canon continued.

God continued.

That unsettled her more than anything.

How could eternity proceed so calmly?

The vigil lamp before Christ Pantocrator burned in its red glass. It hung from three thin chains and swayed slightly whenever someone passed.

Natasha found herself staring at the eyes in the icon.

They did not accuse. They did not explain. They simply were.

Father Georgi made a prostration. The thud of his forehead touching the wooden floor echoed softly in the near-empty nave.

She hesitated — then followed.

Her body remembered the movement even when her heart resisted it.

Kneel.Touch forehead to ground.Rise.

The Church did not ask whether she felt like it.

It simply invited her to enter the rhythm.

Halfway through the service, a thought rose in her like protest:

“If You are good, why didn’t You stop it?”

She expected lightning inside her conscience.

Nothing came.

Only the next line of the Canon:

“The end is drawing near, my soul…”

Her throat tightened.

After the dismissal, people approached for a blessing. Natasha remained still.

Father Georgi did not call her out. He simply extended his hand when she finally came forward.

She kissed the cross mechanically.

Then, unexpectedly, he said quietly:

“Your mother never missed the first week of Lent.”

The words struck her like accusation.

He continued gently, “She once told me the first week is when the soul decides whether it will turn toward God — or away — for the whole year.”

Natasha’s eyes filled.

“I don’t want to turn away,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said simply.

No theology. No explanations.

Just that.

Outside, the air was sharp. A few parishioners lingered in low conversation. The world had not changed.

But inside her, something had shifted — not peace, not clarity — only this:

She realized her anger was not against God’s existence.

It was against His silence.

And yet the silence in the church did not feel empty.

That night, before sleeping, she did not attempt a long prayer.

She only made the sign of the cross slowly.

“For Mama,” she said.

Then after a pause:

“And for me.”

Across town, the lamp before the icon burned steadily.