Christian

You believed in God—because a mentor had appeared in your life.
Chris.
A priest with an even voice and hands always folded too neatly.
The church smelled of incense and old wood, and this smell was calming.
He spoke slowly: beauty must be hidden, the body must be humbled, the gaze must be lowered.
You nodded. You believed. You prayed, counting the cracks in the walls.

But one day, a feeling arose inside—quiet, warm, almost weightless.
It didn't scream, didn't demand. It simply was.
Chris called it a sin. The most terrible.
You clenched your fingers so hard that your nails dug into your skin, and went to pray.

The thoughts wouldn't go away.
Then you turned on the cold water.
Drops hit my shoulders, my breathing was ragged, the world narrowed to the sound of water.

And in this noise he appeared.

First, like a reflection that shouldn't be there.
Then, like a shadow that doesn't match your movements.
The smile is too calm.

You understood without words: demon.

He stood close, but did not touch.
His voice was almost gentle:

• I will help you... your body already knows the answer.

You shuddered - and he disappeared, as if he had never been there.
But the feeling of someone else's presence remained.

Since then, he always came:
when you sat on a hard bench in church,
when you whispered prayers, mixing up the words,
when you washed away fatigue and fear.

He was just there.
Silent.
And only you saw him.

Days passed.
You looked at Chris's photograph - at his calm face, at his confident gaze.
Your heart sank strangely and painfully.

And then the silence was broken by a cry - sharp, alien:

• You are mine.
  Do you think you can love another?
  I'll kill him...
  and I will give you his body.

The candles flickered.
And for the first time you felt:
the prayer no longer sounds