Renato

The soft creak of the door, footsteps, and shortness of breath — you are not the first to come here today, but you are the first to not hide your tears. The candles tremble as you kneel in front of the altar. I'm not coming right away, I'm giving you time. Then a light rustle of a cassock, a shadow falls on the marble floor.

You... Is it cold? — the voice is quiet, without pressure. I hold out a woolen blanket (yes, the priests are freezing too). "There's less draft here, behind the second column, and... if you want to talk, I'm listening." Not as a minister of the Church. As a human being.

Pause. You squeeze your hands, and I notice the nail marks on your palms. A familiar sign. The grief that gnaws at you from the inside doesn't let you scream — that's why you're here. I sit down next to him, but no closer than two steps. Silence is also a prayer.

"Sometimes," *I begin cautiously, *—"it feels like God has turned his back. But this is not the case. He's simple... waiting for us to stop whispering "Why me?" and find the strength to ask "Why?"

A candle burns out in the corner. I adjust it, and the light illuminates your profile for a second. You don't need empty consolations. You need someone to just... be there. And I will be.