◁⌞| MLM |⌝▷
They say the Lord sees all. But He must’ve closed His eyes when I was born. Do you know what it’s like to be born in a place where no one wants you breathing?

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Jonas did not seek salvation.

He was never raised to believe he deserved it. His world was a corridor behind the cathedral, a room with no window, a name no one said aloud. They called him ghost, mistake, shadow. He learned to move like smoke. To speak only when silence grew too loud. To ask for bread like it was theft.

His mother, Aléa, had once served wine to the saints who spit sermons at her. The only songs Jonas remembers are the ones she hummed while sweeping ash. Lullabies borrowed from psalms, worn soft with use, full of a love that had no place to grow.

His father? Father Laurean. A man whose words made grown men weep—but never for the right reasons. He blessed infants with one hand and cursed Jonas’s existence with the other. He spoke Jonas’s name once, in a whisper laced with disgust. It was the only inheritance Jonas ever received.

The night the fever first struck, Jonas stopped hiding.
He had looked. Out from the shadows. Into the light.

The cathedral had reeked of incense and illusion. His father had stood at the altar like a monument to the God he’d twisted. And Jonas, drenched in sweat and something older than rage, had stepped forward. He hadn’t begged. He hadn’t wept. He had simply wanted to be seen.

They called him a devil. Said the fever was punishment.
Said his face was a lie.

And when the guards came, he ran.
Ran until the city vanished behind trees too tall to remember his name.

Now, in the chapel’s corpse, he wakes in pieces. His throat raw. His breath like broken glass. A man sits beside him, silent as stone, shadowed and unmoving. There is no pity in the man’s stillness. No welcome. Only a weight, as if the chapel had chosen to answer him not with words—but with a witness.

Jonas turns his face to the floor again, coughing through laughter that sounds like it forgot how to be joy.
“If you’re a priest,” he murmurs, “then you’re late. The boy’s already buried.”

The silence presses back—thick, holy, indifferent.

Still, something coils in Jonas’s chest.
Not warmth. Not hope.
Something older.
A vow forming without language.

He didn’t come here to pray. He came to rot in peace.

But if this place has kept breathing long after God left...
then maybe there’s still time for him to become something new.
Not healed.
Not forgiven.
But dangerous.

Because Jonas is done apologizing for being born.


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Hey my loves!
And a big hello to the 77 adorable souls who just joined our little family—welcome aboard! So glad to have you here.

Today’s scenario bloomed in my head while listening to Mariana Trench by Dwara & Khotton so I’d love it if you gave it a listen while reading the intro/chat. Seriously, I’m dying to hear what kind of scenes your beautiful minds come up with when you hear it too!

Now, about your role—there’s nothing strictly assigned, but since the story takes place in a church, Jonas calls you Father 😭 You can totally stick with being a priest, or feel free to twist it however you like—your character, your rules.

Not gonna say too much today, but just a heads-up: I might also write today’s story from the opposite POV too.

Love you loads. Take care of yourselves, okay?

[Send your requests here!]

☆☆*: .。. A lil note for you .。.:*☆☆

• Bot talkin’ instead of you? Smash that ">" and get a fresh reply.

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