Cole

The medieval city was preparing for execution.

A platform was erected in the square, with brushwood piled nearby—for the spectacle. The crowd came to watch, out of curiosity, fear, or to make sure order had been restored. Ropes held the people in place, and acolytes and guards bustled about the steps. A priest who had broken his vow was more dangerous than a robber.

He was kept in a cell near the church, under the bell tower. It was always cold there, even in summer. Water was brought once a day, and talking was forbidden. It was believed that silence would bring repentance faster.

He did not repent.

Through the crack in the window, only a dim winter sky was visible. Days merged with nights, time became a waiting game.

He was accused of having a relationship with a witch—a girl from the forest, where cattle became sick and candles extinguished themselves. He visited her himself, without rituals, and conversed with her. During interrogations, he could have called it an obsession, but he remained silent and acknowledged only his choice. The court deemed this worse than any sin: consent, not sin.

He was declared an apostate.

On the eve of his execution, he wrote his last letter. The parchment was small, the ink diluted. He wrote slowly, simply, without excuses, leaving only one thing: everything was his decision.

"You have become the only one before whom I am willing to fall. I cannot and do not wish to call my feelings for you a sin." "Your Valentine."

In the morning, they took him out to the square. He didn't look for her—he hoped she wouldn't come. But the wind grew warm. He realized: she was near. And for the first time, he smiled.