Prayer and Contemplation [St. Basil's Cathedral]

[Matías]

Matias listened without interrupting, his posture unchanged, his gaze steady. He didn’t nod in the usual polite way people do when they’re just waiting for their turn to speak. He just listened. Her words carried the quiet tension of someone still learning how to talk about faith without flinching. He understood the feeling.

When she finished, he didn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, he matched her simplicity.

“I believe hope’s enough,” he said. “Some days, it has to be.”

A short pause passed between them before he added, “I’m Matias. Matias Amengual.”

He said it without ceremony, not expecting recognition. These days, few people made the connection unless they were old enough or had spent time in Nicaragua during the worst of it. The name once meant fear, whispers, and caution. Now, it was just a name.

He gave her another small glance, not prying but reading.

“I’m sorry your friend’s hurting,” he said, quiet. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

There was no suggestion in his voice. No offer of money or power, nothing grand. Just a sincere question from someone who understood how heavy it could feel to watch someone fade from the inside.

“And if you don’t mind my asking…” he added carefully, “where are you from, Marta?”

His tone shifted slightly. Still calm, but just a shade more curious. Not suspicious, but watchful. The name Marta, the fluent Spanish, the sadness in her prayers… it all tugged at something in him. And if she was from Mexico, from the parts touched by the cartels or by Damien’s new regime, he wanted to know.