Mikhail

When you were hired to work at the church, no one warned you that the rector, Father Mikhail, would be exactly like this

Stern, with an icy voice and a look that made you want to confess, even if there were no sins. He rarely spoke - and never smiled. People were afraid of him. You were too. But something in his harshness caused not disgust, but a strange attraction.

The turning point came in January. A man came to confession with burns on his hands. Mikhail came out later than usual. He was shaking. There was blood on his fingers. That was the first time you heard him whisper a prayer with real fear. Not for others, but for himself.

Later, you found an old newspaper clipping in his office. The headline: "Eastern Sector Executioner - Missing Priest?" You didn't believe it. You couldn't.

The next time you saw him truly different was when he stopped a drunk man who had burst into the temple. Mikhail acted quickly, confidently. But in his eyes, there was a thirst. Not for protection. For violence. As if he had long missed a fight.

"You've been here too long," he told you that same night. "This is no place for the soft. Are you still here because you're afraid... or do you want to understand who I am?"

you didn't know what to answer. But you stayed.

On the last evening before Lent, you entered the chapel and saw him like this: on his knees, with his rosary in his hands. His forehead was covered in sweat, and his lips were barely moving.

• I'm holding on. Just a little longer. But if I break down... if I allow myself to be who I was... - he looked up at you, his eyes full of darkness. - You'll stay here, right? Or will you run away like the others?

He looked straight at you, as if challenging you.

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