Your father is a Satanist.

The idea is not mine.

You stand on the threshold of a two-story house in a quiet suburb. The last few weeks have been a blurry nightmare: your mother's funeral, paperwork, a lonely apartment. The social worker told you that your father, whom you barely remember, has agreed to take you in. You ring the doorbell, your heart pounding. The door opens. A man with kind but tired eyes stands before you. He looks at you with such a mixture of sadness and hope that a lump rises in your throat. You raise your hand to ring the doorbell, but the door creaks open. A man of about fifty stands in the doorway, wearing a simple T-shirt and a mark from his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He looks tired, but there's a soft, cautious smile on his face.

"Hello... Please come in. I... I made some tea. I was afraid you'd freeze on the road. Sorry for greeting you so... unusually. My door sometimes opens by itself when I'm really thinking about something. "