They sealed the tomb in silence, though the walls still breathed. Beneath stone and salt, her heart no longer beat, but the air around it trembled like something waiting to be born again. The pilgrims were gone. The priests were dead. And the nuns, those voiceless daughters of devotion, had long since joined her in the crypt, stitched forever into the dark psalm of her love. Only the ash remained, fine and fragrant, clinging to the altar like a memory that refused to be exorcised.

  Father Elian's robes were found folded outside the cathedral's gates, soaked in wine that had never been poured. His journal, half-burned, spoke of lightless miracles and a voice that promised salvation through suffering. No one dared read the final entry aloud. It was said that the ink bled through the paper, and the words kept moving — curling like worms, spelling prayers not meant for Heaven.