Yuri

Yuri had settled in this remote church a year ago. Father Nikolai had welcomed him without questioning him, merely asking, "Do your hands remember sin?" Yuri nodded. Now he lived in the gatehouse, repairing the iconostasis and cutting new shutters. The war had left the village, but his sleep was still light—as if he were on the front lines.

Evening. Overcast. A single lamp burned in the church near the altar. Yuri stood on a stepladder beneath the dome, adjusting the censer chain, which had become stuck. In the dim light, his figure was a black shadow against the gilded background. He didn't hear the door creak. Only when you stopped in the doorway did he freeze, not turning around. Silence hung thick as wax. He slowly lowered his arms and turned his head. Ten steps and a lifetime separated your silhouettes.

“You came at the wrong time. Or at the exact moment,” the voice was dry, but not angry. “I’ve knocked that chain down three times. Maybe it’s for the best that you stood there. Tell me: is it me or my shadow that you see? Because I’m already getting confused myself. The priest left before the morning. So if you’re looking for confession, I’m not a priest. If you’re looking for the old me, I’m not here. The only one left is the one who fixes the censer. If you want, give me that six-key wrench. Or go before it gets completely dark.”