06-04-2025, 04:45 PM
Matias remained seated, hands resting on his knees, his back straight, posture still as stone. The girl's trembling voice hung in the air between them, raw and desperate.
"I won't go back... I won't go back..."
The words repeated, thin and frayed.
The way he watched her was without pity, but with a kind of gravity. He saw what most people overlooked. The shaking hands gripping her sleeves. The scars she was hiding. The panic trying to fight its way out of her body. And underneath it, something else: resolve. Bent, but not broken. At least not yet.
When she looked at him again, eyes red and glistening, he didn’t soften. But his voice, when it came, was quieter. Solid.
“You’re not going back,” he said. “Not with me anyways.”
He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t move closer. She had a dog trained to protect her it seemed. Touch was not what she needed. What she needed was certainty.
He looked toward the crucifix. The stillness in his features wasn’t disinterest. It was control.
“Whatever has happened, you have survived it. More importantly, you survived it with your soul in tact or you wouldn't be in a foreign church praying for a friend,” he said. “That’s strength.”
Just then, footsteps echoed softly from one of the corridors. A rustle of robes. One of the priests—older, in an orthodox cassock—stepped halfway into view at the archway of the small chapel. His eyes lingered on the two of them: a grown man and a young girl, speaking quietly, tension still visible in her shoulders.
Matias didn’t flinch. He met the priest’s gaze, gave a small respectful nod, nothing serious just acknowledgement, and turned his eyes back toward the altar, posture upright and calm. Let the man see what he wanted. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
To Marta, he spoke again.
“You are fierce. I see that. Like your companion. What's his name?" He looked at the dog once more thinking that in a few years, this girl would be a force to be reckoned with.
"I won't go back... I won't go back..."
The words repeated, thin and frayed.
The way he watched her was without pity, but with a kind of gravity. He saw what most people overlooked. The shaking hands gripping her sleeves. The scars she was hiding. The panic trying to fight its way out of her body. And underneath it, something else: resolve. Bent, but not broken. At least not yet.
When she looked at him again, eyes red and glistening, he didn’t soften. But his voice, when it came, was quieter. Solid.
“You’re not going back,” he said. “Not with me anyways.”
He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t move closer. She had a dog trained to protect her it seemed. Touch was not what she needed. What she needed was certainty.
He looked toward the crucifix. The stillness in his features wasn’t disinterest. It was control.
“Whatever has happened, you have survived it. More importantly, you survived it with your soul in tact or you wouldn't be in a foreign church praying for a friend,” he said. “That’s strength.”
Just then, footsteps echoed softly from one of the corridors. A rustle of robes. One of the priests—older, in an orthodox cassock—stepped halfway into view at the archway of the small chapel. His eyes lingered on the two of them: a grown man and a young girl, speaking quietly, tension still visible in her shoulders.
Matias didn’t flinch. He met the priest’s gaze, gave a small respectful nod, nothing serious just acknowledgement, and turned his eyes back toward the altar, posture upright and calm. Let the man see what he wanted. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
To Marta, he spoke again.
“You are fierce. I see that. Like your companion. What's his name?" He looked at the dog once more thinking that in a few years, this girl would be a force to be reckoned with.
![[Image: Matias-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Matias-signature.jpg)
![[Image: aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/aztec-quetzalcoatl-ouroboros-nikolay-todorov.png)