The hallowed ground remained closed after Evangeline’s departure, leaving Sylas to bear its silence alone. The consecrated walls of the church had hidden his existence from the villagers, but they had also condemned him to an unbearable stillness.

In Evangeline’s absence, he had taken over nearly all the domestic chores she once tended to.

He swept the hallways and the chambers every day, making sure not a speck of dust remained. Sometimes, when he passed the altar, he imagined Evangeline standing there in prayer — specks of sunlight filtering through the windows and illuminating her silhouette, her white robes glowing in chaste purity. The hymns she sang lingered in his mind.

Once, while sweeping near the altar, he found a strand of pale hair caught between the pages of a hymn book she had left behind. He stared at it for a long while before closing the book again and placing it carefully back on the lectern.

Whenever he sat at the table drinking from his goblet, he recalled Evangeline eating across from him, and the way her hair fell loose over her face. Once or twice, he reached for a plate before stopping. The table looked strangely bare without it.

He dared not read in the library, not wanting to reveal his existence to the world outside. Instead, he carried the books down to the basement and read them there under the light of a single candle. Each time he lit one, he found himself staring at the flame, remembering the warmth of it that night.

While reading, he often wrote his thoughts in the margins. Sometimes he paused on a particular passage, letting the words settle in his mind.

Evangeline would appreciate this part, he thought to himself.

Sylas had long been accustomed to silence and loneliness. Yet for the first time, it felt unbearable.

Night after night, he stood at the top of the bell tower, hidden in the shadows, searching the serpentine road for a glimpse of a returning carriage. The lanterns of passing travelers flickered in the distance once in a while, and then vanish again beyond the hills. When the sun began to rise, he would descend again, preparing himself for another day of hush and solitude.

One night, he was carving a statue from a piece of lumber that could no longer be used for fuel. The blade paused midway as he struggled to decide what shape it ought to take.

A sudden knock echoed against the gates.

Sylas rose at once and hurried up to the bell tower to see who had arrived, wary in case it was someone else.

White robes. Blonde hair.

Evangeline.

He climbed down in haste and pulled the gates open wide to welcome her back.

The brief flicker of happiness that rose within him vanished the instant he saw her face.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her body trembled like a fallen leaf. She looked on the verge of collapsing. Without a word, he lifted her into his arms and shut the gates behind him.

He carried her to her chamber and laid her gently upon the bed. Placing his hand against her temple, he felt a faint warmth.

Yet it was not the fever that unsettled him most.

He had grown accustomed to Evangeline’s calm composure. Instead he saw a woman weeping uncontrollably — tears spilling down her feverish cheeks and soaking into the folds of her clothes.

Sylas sat at her feet.

“What happened? Was it something at the orphanage?”

His question only made her sob harder.

“She was so young,” Evangeline managed between breaths. “She had only just begun her life, and yet it ended… ended so soon.”

Her hands trembled as she spoke.

“She was barely this small. They asked me to bless her so that she might recover.” Her voice broke.

“Instead… I had to perform her last rites.”

Her shoulders shook as the words left her. He felt his throat tighten. The images of his sick father flashed before his mind. His body had become so frail and small too, before he passed away.

“I prayed for her, Sylas. I begged that she might live.”

She buried her face in her hands. A tear left his eyes.

“But she was so small. It is so unfair.”

Sylas remained still. The memory of their conversation at the altar surfaced unbidden in his mind — the question he had once placed before her like a blade.

When someone kneels for relief and none comes, what has failed? His hearing? His goodness? Or His power?

Now she was the one who had knelt. 

And mercy had not come.

He had asked that question once with bitterness. She bore its answer with grief. Yet not once did she lay blame upon the Almighty.

Sylas rose and moved to sit beside her.

“Evangeline… look at me.”

His voice was unusually gentle.

“There was nothing more you could have done for the child. You did all that you could.”

Her eyes lifted toward him, blurred with tears. He brushed them away with a tender hand, his fingers lingering lightly against her cheek.

“I… I am certain she spent her final moments in peace, with you by her side.”

Her breathing slowly began to steady beneath his touch, though her heart still thumped. 

“But I—”

Sylas gently raised a finger, stopping her words.

“Do not keep blaming yourself,” he said softly. “The child would have been distressed to see you like this. She would not blame you.”

His hand remained lightly against her cheek.

“If anything, she would have thanked you… for giving her solace in her final moments.”

Her fingers slowly loosened around the rosary she had been clutching. 

She leaned closer and wrapped her arms around him. 

Sylas stiffened in surprise, unsure how to respond at first. Then, hesitantly, he raised a hand and began stroking her head in low, careful motions.

They remained like that for a while. Sylas could feel the quiet rhythm of her pulse against him.

“You have a slight fever,” he murmured. “Let me help you.”

He gently laid Evangeline back on the bed and drew the blanket over her. Then he went to the pantry and returned with a small vial. Carefully, he guided its contents between her lips.

Afterward he brought a basin of water and a towel, dipping the cloth into the water before wringing it out and placing it upon her forehead.

Evangeline felt utterly exhausted, yet a sense of comfort settled over her in his presence. Despite her weariness, a faint smile touched her lips.

“Thank you, Sylas.”

Sleep claimed her soon after.

Sylas remained seated beside her bed the entire night.