After the First Sign
I write these words not as sermons for the ears of the faithful, but as testimony—for the times are changing, and so too must our understanding.
There are whispers in the stillness now. Not of devils or demons, but of something deeper—older. I have seen it with my own eyes: good people shifting into things unrecognizable, as if the very fabric of their souls were unraveling beneath some unseen weight. At first, I believed it to be sin made flesh, a punishment for pride and indulgence. But that explanation now feels as hollow as the pews that no longer fill.
Last fortnight, I fell ill—violently, grievously ill. My skin cracked like old parchment, my breath fled me, and my bones ached with the surety of death. I prepared myself to meet the Lord, my confessions made, my soul unburdened. But I did not die.
Instead, I awoke whole. My wounds closed, my lungs clear. The pain gone. Not dulled—gone. A miracle? Surely. No apothecary touched me. No tincture passed my lips. I believe—no, I know—this healing was of divine origin. A blessing of God, sent not just to restore me, but to steel me for what is to come.
My faith is no longer the quiet comfort of hymns and candles. It is now a fire that must burn in defiance of the darkness. I have been preserved for a purpose. The world is shifting, yes—but it is not lost. Not while the faithful still stand. Not while I still breathe.
I shall place this record here, alongside the sacred tomes. Should I falter, let it be known: God still moves among us. We must only open our eyes—and be ready.
Seven Days Since the First Sign
The shadows grow longer, even in daylight.
Today, a child was brought to me—silent, unmoving, her skin cold though she lived. Her mother wept, begging for rites, for healing, for anything. I laid trembling hands upon the girl’s brow and whispered prayers that had not passed my lips since seminary. I do not know if it was my voice that changed, or something beneath it—but I felt the power stir again.
The girl stirred, and for a moment, I saw her eyes—truly saw them. Not vacant with sickness or dimmed by death, but wide with knowing. As if something had touched her spirit in that cold stillness. She gasped, clung to her mother, and wept. I offered no explanation, only thanks to God. But in truth, I was shaken.
There are murmurs among the clergy. Some say the world is under judgment. Others believe we are in the birth pains of a new age. I confess, I no longer know which is true. But the old boundaries—between life and death, sacred and profane—are bleeding into one another. The veil thins. I can feel it.
Yet amid the fear, I find strange peace. Each miracle—each flicker of healing or protection that passes through me—feels right. Not like power seized, but like water drawn from a well dug long ago. Perhaps God has not abandoned us. Perhaps He is waiting to see who still listens.
I will remain in the Sanctum. These books, these bones, these whispered truths—they are all I have left of certainty. If this is to be a crucible, then let it test my faith. I will not turn from it. Not now.
Not when so much has yet to be revealed.
Fifteen Days Since the First Sign
I scarcely recognize the world beyond these walls.
The air is thick with dread. Not the kind born of rumor or superstition, but something more primal—like the earth itself remembers something we have forgotten. Travelers come fewer now. Those who do arrive speak of empty villages, animals behaving strangely, stars shifting subtly in the sky. One man wept in the vestibule, swearing his brother dissolved into mist before his eyes, leaving only a scorched ring in the grass. I prayed with him, though my words rang hollow even in my own ears.
And still, I remain.
The healing persists, but it grows stranger. Yesterday, I placed my hand upon a woman stricken with fever. Her flesh cooled, yes, but as I withdrew, she spoke my name—though I had not given it. Her eyes were milky white, yet she looked through me, as though seeing something that clung just behind my shoulder. Then she wept and fell asleep. She will recover, I am sure of it—but I am left wondering: who, or what, answers when I pray now?
I do not believe this power is evil. But neither do I believe it is the God I once knew—not wholly. There is design in this, yes, but also testing. Revelation, as it was in the desert, when the prophets were driven to the edge of madness to find clarity. Is that what this is? A divine reckoning? A new covenant forming in silence and shadow?
I will continue to serve. To heal. To write.
But in the quiet hours, I confess—I am afraid. Not of death, but of what I might become if I am not careful. Power sanctifies, yes, but it also consumes. I feel it pulling at the edges of me.
Still, I will not abandon my post. This sanctum is holy, and my duty remains.
Let the darkness come. I will meet it in the light.
Twenty-Three Days Since the First Sign
I heard singing last night.
Not from the choir loft, long since emptied, nor from the cloistered cells where no monks now dwell—but from beyond the northern wall, where the tombs lie cold and sealed. It was a soft melody, wordless and slow, yet filled with sorrow so deep it bent the very air around it. I dared not follow it. I only listened. And wept.
This morning, I found the northern crypt ajar.
Not shattered, not forced—opened, as if from within. The dust had been disturbed. I found no tracks, only a single red petal, fresh and bright against the stone. A flower that does not grow in this region. I took it to the altar and laid it beside the relics. It has not withered.
There are signs everywhere now. The stained glass shifts in the light, casting scenes that were never part of its original design—stars falling, towers crumbling, figures with wings not of feathers but of fire. I do not know whether these are omens or illusions, but the pattern is too deliberate to ignore.
Still, I pray.
But my prayers are no longer for deliverance. They are for clarity. For wisdom enough to guide those few who still come, desperate for hope. I anoint them with oil, I offer them warmth, and I speak of God's love. And I do believe He loves us still—but I also believe we are being weighed.
This sanctum has become more than a place of worship. It is a threshold—between what was and what is to come.
If I am to be the last voice to speak His name here, then let my voice be strong. Let these words remain long after I am gone. And let them remember that though the heavens may fall, faith does not vanish with the stars.
It burns. Quietly, perhaps.
But it burns.
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