Ashes and beginnings

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting soft gold over the wooden fence and cracked path that led to the little cottage on the town’s edge. The air smelled like damp earth and wildflowers, and the evening breeze stirred the curtain hanging in the only window. Inside, the silence was warm, sacred and soothing to the soul.

Auther sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the worn leather-bound Bible in his lap—the same Bible he had left behind the night he walked away from everything he knew. Michael had delivered it that morning, a quiet but monumental gesture. No sermon. No guilt. Just a nod, and the words, “It’s yours. Still.”

Auther had clutched it like an anchor, heart hammering, as Michael walked away. That gift, humble and deeply personal, felt like an absolution. The weight of it brought tears to his eyes, and though Michael hadn’t said it outright, Auther knew it was his father, mentor, brother and friend's way of saying, I still believe in you.

He also reflected on Isabella's gift to him.

She handed him a second gift—a small, handmade envelope. Her fingers were trembling as she placed it in his hand. Inside was a single, silver key attached to a red thread.

He had looked at her, puzzled.

“A key?” he asked, voice low.

“To my heart,” she whispered, eyes luminous.

She had also reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing against the stubble lining his cheek. “You already had it. This just makes it official.”

He hadn’t spoken, couldn’t trust his voice. He had only pulled her into a quiet, breathless hug that told her everything he couldn’t say.

Now, hours later, the Bible and the symbolic key sat side by side on the table. The past and the future. Duty and love. The man he had been and the man he was becoming.

He rose, crossed the room, and knelt in front of the candle lit altar Isabella had set up on a milk crate. No icons. Just wildflowers in a jar, a blank notebook, and a pen.

Auther wrote his heart out in words. In silence.

" Lord, I’m not who I was when I first held this Bible. I’m not certain who I am now. But I know I’m tired of hating myself for loving her. If love is from You, then let this be holy. Let this be enough".

He closed the notebook, kissed the edge of the Bible, and stood. The cottage, small as it was, already felt like something sacred.

-----

The next morning was pale and quiet. Dew glistened on the grass outside, and Isabella stirred in bed as Auther dressed quickly, tying his hair back and buttoning the shirt she’d ironed for him.

“You’re going,” she murmured, blinking up at him.

“I told Mr. Greene I’d be there at eight.”

She sat up, smiling sleepily. “You’re going to smell like paper and ink all day.”

“I could think of worse things.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

“Take your time,” she whispered. “Just… stay happy for me today.”

He stepped outside, inhaling the crisp morning air. As he walked toward the bookstore, his heart beat with something unfamiliar—hope.

---

The bookstore was tucked between an apothecary and a clockmaker’s shop. It was old, musty, and perfect. Shelves leaned like drunken companions, and books spilled across tables and floors in uneven towers.

Mr. Greene, an elderly man with wiry spectacles, waved him in.

“Welcome, Father,” he said with a grin.

“Just Auther,” he replied.

Mr. Greene chuckled. “Habit. But welcome, Auther.”

They spent the morning dusting shelves and categorizing titles. Auther’s fingers remembered the rhythm of books, the scent of aging pages. He found himself recommending a poetry collection to a shy teenage girl and debating literary metaphors with an old scholar who stopped by every Thursday.

When the bell above the door chimed again, he turned, expecting another customer.

It was Isabella, holding a brown paper bag.

“You forgot your lunch,” she said, eyes twinkling.

He walked over, took the bag, and squeezed her hand.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I was hoping you’d bring it.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Smooth, Father-not-a-Father.”

They sat in the backroom on two overturned crates, sharing bread and cheese, sipping tea from mismatched mugs. Mr. Greene had wandered off to nap in his office, and the shop hummed with quiet magic.

“I think I might like it here,” Auther said.

“I think you already do,” Isabella replied.

A moment of silence passed between them, full and content.

---

They both laughed then, truly laughed, and the walls of the tiny cottage held onto the sound like a blessing.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet. She made tea while he lit the candles. They sat side by side on the bed, sharing stories, laughing about absurd parish rumors, grieving over what was lost, and imagining what could still be found.

He told her about his month away—the loneliness, the guilt, the moment he looked up at the crucifix in that unfamiliar chapel and realized that God wasn’t behind the altar anymore. He was here, in this room, in the eyes of the woman before him.

She spoke of the whispers she endured, the cold stares from former friends, and how she spent nights journaling letters she never intended to send.

“I wrote to you every day,” she confessed. “In my head, on napkins, in the margins of books. I just didn’t know if I had the right to send them.”

“You always had the right,” he said.

She tucked her legs beneath her, pulling the quilt over her lap. “I thought maybe God was punishing me through silence. But now I think He was making room—for this.”

Night fell, wrapping them in its hush. They lay on the bed, not as lovers, not yet—but as two souls stitched back together by grace, pain, and the decision to try again.

Isabella turned on her side, eyes half-lidded. “Do you regret it?”

“What?”

“Us.”

He reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers. “Never. I don’t. Not for a second.”

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Good". Because I’d choose this again and again. Even if it meant burning every altar we ever knew.”

Auther stared at the ceiling, the stars beyond the roof unseen but deeply felt. “Then let’s do just that. Together.”

And somewhere, in the silence between words, the ashes began to stir with life again.