The dawn amidst the dense fog burned Lucian's retina as he rehearsed the routine of his day in bed, in his mind. The customary silence danced through the air; the aroma of breakfast was implanted in this dance, to which he didn't seem to have been invited. He descended the stairs sublimely, balanced. His family was gathered in the living room in a familial cliché.

  Mr. Alexandru was in his dark leather armchair, reading a book—not just any, but a classic and strategic one—with a new cup for the new country. His face traced a pitch black of weariness and an austere, avoidant temperament; glasses hung on the tip of his nose, held by a cord of dark stones, accentuating that already striking gaze.

  Facing the stained glass that divided the room from the extensive winter garden was Mrs. Elena, appreciating the flowers in contrast to the beams of natural light that gave color to the environment. The warm colors in favor of the floral scene highlighted her curly brown hair, with a gentle smile accompanied by that look of experience, like a fine wine.

  Vlad was on the corner sofa with a required reading book, so focused yet still perceptive; he always knew the atmosphere the environment was straining to emerge. Over the book, his gaze wandered in search of the target of his instinct, oscillating between reading and the mission of being attentive to any slip of electrical tension and breath from anyone else.

  And finally, Anya, withdrawn, was doing a school activity, occasionally asking her parents and siblings; the answer was always brief. She was a mini copy of her family, more childlike; she wouldn't stay there any longer than necessary, she would return to the porch to read—plants and books, a very clear definition.

  However, he needed to make his own statement and final question to the family before she went her way.

  "Cu permisia voastr?, tat?, mam?," he began his address. "Am fost informat c? exist? o biseric? ortodox? ?n ora? ?i c? se ?ine ?coala duminical?; a? dori s?-i conduc maine la Sfanta Liturghie ?i v? rog s? m? ?nscrie?i la urm?toarea grup? de ?nv???mant, deoarece cred c? mi-ar putea ?mbog??i vocabularul ?n limba portughez? ?i mi-ar permite s? particip ?n mediul religios care face parte din mo?tenirea noastr?, chiar ?i ?ntr-o ?ar? nou?."?

  He had spoken robotically and with the most calculated haste possible; he trembled with the request, and his heart seemed to want to jump out of that scene. And if he needed to say anything more, he couldn't; a knot had already formed in his throat, containing his heavy breath for himself. But, in return, he was met with a smile from both, who looked at him with gentle eyes.

  They glanced at each other for a moment and returned the answer to Lucian; they had nodded their heads and, without further words; the silence would continue to reign that day. With their full affirmation, he felt ready for his own breakfast; however, he still couldn't believe that Kael was the one who had helped him with this—since when did the devil help find the way?

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  It was possible that even this was different in that place; the devil was kind, welcoming, shrewd, and charming, but the characteristic of a tempter was still a truth, regardless of where. Not that it was really an absolute definition; he didn't seem evil; he seemed like an angel.

  Despite this digression, he decided not to think anymore about which box to place him in, but simply to leave him anywhere except in his mind, setting up workshop. After the meal, he went upstairs and dedicated himself to studying as much as he could until lunch; by then, hours had already passed; no one else was home.

  He took the opportunity to dissect a book in Portuguese, a classic; however, that language made him return to that boy. If not even literature could cure him at that moment, only meditative prayer could be his recourse. He stayed in that state until he felt cleansed of the malignancy that was Kael's workshop within him.

  But why did he question a person he didn't even know, and worse, how could he know exactly what to ask to disarm him like that? If he wasn't a cynic, he was the fallen angel himself, questioning God's sovereignty and claiming to be His equal; was there any other answer but this?

  Following this, he understood that his state of mind was still disturbed; he couldn't continue like this; he needed to return the earthquake that Miguel had caused. He went to the glass door that served as a huge window, walking along the suspended balcony. The sunset was in its final stages, the stars emerged in its wake, and the fresh breeze gradually took on harsh, icy sparks.

  He breathed with a weight; the stone was rolling from the top again, and something new was being generated from it; an eye in the abyss winked at him, hunting something he still didn't want to face in return. With the condominium quiet, in the distance, he saw a house with a pool, full of people; the music seemed loud, yet it was muffled by the other streets and huge houses.

  How could something so spacious, full of possessions, with questionable abundance, be so empty? To be part of the whole was to have everything, but at what price? If there was debauchery and cold lust, misery and disbelief there; it wouldn't fit in Miguel's world, even though he wasn't a reflection of that price, something in him still radiated freedom without regard for responsibility.

  Of course, he cares, helps, assists, and all other charitable terms fit him; he is the fruit of respect for the cause, but he is not part of it. He is virtuous, but he follows a vicious cycle; he was an intellectualized project, but young; why did he esteem him if he wasn't even an exemplary example? He could be and remain everything, but his faith was only in humanity.

  Nothing good could come from that; nothing worldly could be sacred, and he was indeed the middle ground of worlds, however, a something he shouldn't care about. He needed to let this dilemma rest; he wasn't a riddle to be solved, nor anything to be measurable through the lens he viewed with.

  He would return to attending church, fulfill his duties as a virtuous son and faithful believer, study day and night, focus on learning the language, and finally forget him—no, he couldn't. However, he should avoid sinking into that ocean; he should, in the most absolute truth of all this conflict, avoid burning himself in that ray of sunshine.