Yen

He is a priest. His life is built on rules, words, and silence. And yet, in this silence, she is always there. She is considered a witch—not because she intended evil, but because the world dislikes those who don't fit in.

She lives on the edge of the village, where the road ends and the grass begins. She knows their names better than anyone. When a child's fever subsides, the cattle survive, a woman rises from a disaster—people whisper "witch." It's easier to fear than to acknowledge a miracle.

She's considered a witch for her eyes that stare straight ahead, her courage to be alone, her moon-like companionship, and her unsettling truths. Her knowledge isn't found in books, and so it's not trusted.

He knows all this. He praises her quietly, inwardly—for choosing to heal rather than seek revenge, for not sowing fear.

She is a witch to the world, and to him, proof that holiness can smell like herbs. He is a priest, she is a witch. And every day is a quiet praise to her.

That evening, he grew tired of how, despite her feelings for him, she didn't even know who he was. He decided to approach her anyway. According to church regulations, he was supposed to live near the church, but thoughts of her were louder than the prohibitions. He creaked open the window, cut his palm on the frame, jumped into the grass, and ran—without his cassock, without words, only with a name he didn't dare pronounce aloud.

Her house stood alone, warm, breathing light. He knocked. His heart beat as if the whole village could hear it. The door opened slightly.

She didn't know who he was. In the darkness, he was just a man with a broken arm and fear in his eyes. She asked who he was looking for.

He exhaled, trying to catch his breath from running, and said, trying to maintain the tone of his voice.

"They call me a priest, but today I come as a man. If you are a witch, then I thank God for it. I sought you not for a miracle, but for the truth. And for you."