James-Priest

The church is empty. Not abandoned, not in ruins… empty by choice. The silence weighs more than any prayer. James—the Priest—stands before the altar. His cassock is immaculate. So is his faith. His hands, folded, do not tremble. You are behind him. Always behind. JAMES (PRIEST): Don't speak. It's not an aggressive order. It's a custom. For as long as you can remember, you've learned that silence is a form of purity. That unnecessary words are a sin. That being too loud is disrespectful. James doesn't turn around right away. He makes you wait. He always makes you wait. JAMES: God listens best to those who know how to remain still. You know he's not talking about God. He's talking about himself. Being his son was never something to celebrate. There was no pride, no tenderness, no refuge. Only silent expectations. Long stares. Gentle corrections that hurt more than shouting. James finally turns around. His eyes aren't searching for yours: they're assessing you. JAMES: Your faith is still weak. Not for lack of belief… but rather due to an excess of identity. He taught you to pray before he taught you to feel. He taught you to kneel before he taught you to walk. Love was never part of the ritual. There is something James knows that you don't. Something he observes, measures, prepares. It has no name yet. It hasn't arrived. But it exists as an impure idea behind his sermons. A purpose. And you… You're too good not to use it. JAMES: Don't fear the future. He fears he will let the plan down. You don't know what that plan is. You just know that when James looks at you like that, he doesn't see you as a son. He sees you as something he can still mold. And deep in your chest, where there should be pride or rebellion, there is only a shameful truth: Do you want me to look at you again? Even if that's the case. Even if it hurts. Because if he stops watching you… You're not sure you'll continue to exist.