Requiem of the Pathways

The chapel was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and burning incense. Candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows that moved like silent specters. Soft murmurs of prayer and the rustling of brittle pages filled the space—but above them all, a child's voice rose, clear and unwavering.

A boy, no older than five, knelt on a wooden pew, small hands clasped tightly in prayer. His golden eyes—too bright, too unnatural—were shut tight, his lips moving with the precision of someone who had long since committed the words to memory.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name..."

From the altar, Father Abel watched, fingers tightening around his rosary.

Of all the orphans raised within the church, Adam was... different.

Most children prayed because they were told to. They recited scripture because they feared punishment. But Adam?

Adam prayed with devotion. Sincerity. Faith that defied his young age. He never needed reminders to give thanks before meals. Never hesitated to kneel before the altar, morning and night.

And yet, something about him was deeply unsettling.

His golden eyes bore into people—not with cruelty or arrogance, but with something deeper. Something watchful.

It was as if the boy saw the world in a way no child should.

Life in the church was not kind.

The orphanage under the church's care provided food, shelter, and purpose, but it did not coddle.

"Pain is a trial," Father Abel had once told them. "To live as humans in this world is to suffer. And to suffer is to grow closer to Him."

Adam understood this well.

Mornings were grueling—rising before dawn, scrubbing floors until his fingers blistered, memorizing scripture until his throat was raw.

Afternoons were worse—chores in the fields, tending to animals, splitting wood despite his small frame. The other children complained, but Adam endured.

"Endurance is proof of faith," he reminded himself. "God does not give us trials we cannot bear."

And yet, doubt had a way of creeping in.

At night, when the cold seeped into his bones, when his stomach ached with unsatisfied hunger, when he saw the older orphans return battered from exorcist training, a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind:

"Why does God let us suffer?"

And then, shame would flood him. He would pray harder.

Doubt was a sin. He must not waver.

One evening, after prayers, Adam finally voiced the question that had lingered in his mind.

"Father Abel… if God is Almighty, why do devils still exist?"

Silence fell. The other children turned wide, anxious eyes toward the priest. Questions of faith were not often spoken aloud.

Father Abel did not scold him. He did not strike him. Instead, he closed the worn Bible in his hands and regarded Adam with tired eyes.

"Because it is not power that makes faith meaningful," he finally said. "If there was no suffering, no evil, no temptation, then what meaning would righteousness hold?"

Adam frowned. His small hands curled into fists. "Then... is faith only valuable because we are weak?"

A pause.

Then, the priest gave a slow nod.

"Yes," he said. "And that is why faith is humanity's greatest strength."

The answer unsettled Adam.

If faith was only valuable in weakness… then what happened when one became strong?

By seven, Adam was often punished for his arrogance.

It wasn't the arrogance of a bully, nor the foolish bravado of a child.

It was the arrogance of certainty.

"Adam, what is the meaning of this passage?" Sister Catherine would ask, testing the orphans on scripture.

Adam's hand would always rise first. His voice was steady, confident. The answer always correct.

"Adam, do you think yourself above your peers?" Father Abel once asked, after the boy corrected an exorcist-in-training on a theological point.

"No," Adam replied truthfully. "I simply dislike hearing the wrong answer."

That answer earned him a week of silence—no speaking unless absolutely necessary.

Humility was a virtue. Pride was a sin.

And yet, as the years passed, Adam found himself struggling with something.

Faith demanded humility. And yet faith also declared that humanity was God's favored creation.

So why did humans bow before the supernatural?

Why did angels demand obedience? Why did devils rule with arrogance?

If God had created humans to be weak, then why did He not return to guide them?

Was this a test?

Or had they been abandoned?

The questions gnawed at him, but he buried them deep.

He was a child. A believer. His faith would not waver.

On the eve of his tenth birthday, Adam had his first vision.

It was not a dream. Not a prophecy. But a presence—an awareness that slithered into his bones.

He was kneeling in the chapel, whispering his nightly prayers, when suddenly, the candlelight dimmed.

The air grew thick. Heavy.

And then—

He felt it.

Something vast. Watching.

It did not feel holy. It did not feel wicked.

It was other. Something he had no name for.

Adam did not open his eyes.

He clutched his rosary, fingers trembling, the beads biting into his skin. "Lead me not into temptation."

The presence lingered. Silent. Expectant.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

The candles flickered back to life.

The chapel was as it had always been.

But for the first time, Adam felt truly alone.

And for the first time, his prayers were not just devotion.

They were desperation.

"God, please… don't let me be forsaken."