At three o’clock, the bell tolled, and the townsfolk stepped into the Sacred Cathedral hall, faces clouded like a gathering storm.

They first shook hands with Sister Bertha at the door, trading soft greetings like drifting leaves.

Then they moved toward the altar, a bouqueted shore of carefully chosen flowers.

At the altar’s most striking spot sat an ornate frame, gleaming like a quiet lake.

Inside lay Priest John’s kindly face without a smile.

The right corner of his mouth drooped, while his eyes held the lens with a gentle light, like dusk on water.

Alina didn’t join the viewing, because she’d spent her hours on Melvina; not knowing the ritual’s steps, she stood in a shadowed corner, watching the passing tide of people.

Sunlight slanted to her feet, deepening the shadow that clung to her body, like a pinch of unattended ash at a hearth.

“John was a good man,” a townsman murmured, holding white carnations like snow. “He helped so many.”

The sister beside the altar bent with a rain-soft bow, and accepted the carnation like lifting a small moon.

A withered elder reached to touch the cold stone pillar, his fingers trembling like winter twigs. “It was all arranged… for him to conduct my funeral…”

The sister answered with a smile, thin as a thread of light through clouds.

“Priest has passed. The Sacred Cathedral needs a Holy Maiden,” Mandele said, hands in pockets, breath hissing like a respirator’s vent. “Do you have a candidate?”

“This—” the sister glanced at Sister Bertha by the door, her eyes flicking like sparrows. “With this happening, we haven’t decided.”

“Alright, but arrange it soon,” Mandele replied, words dropping like pebbles in a well.

The sister offered no further answer, her silence pooling like evening rain.

Alina listened quietly from the dark, her ears pricked like a cat’s, and understood the side glance’s source: Melvina, the Holy Maiden named by the Priest.

But she wasn’t here; she was far away in Northstar City, facing a chatty girl in beige sunglasses, cutting her ties to the Molokov Bay Chapel like severed threads.

The public viewing flowed in order like a slow river. During it, Alina stood in her corner, casting her gaze onto every townsfolk like lantern light, easing the ache of being barred from the rite.

“You can’t join the ritual.” Before it began, Sister Bertha had told her, voice firm as a bell. “We’ve rehearsed a long time; you don’t know the steps. Understand?”

“I understand,” Alina said, her words falling like dry leaves.

“About Melvina, tell me after the rite,” Sister Bertha continued, holding time like a tight ribbon. “Start to finish. Don’t hop from east to west.”

Alina chewed her memories in silence, a faint irritation brushing her face like wind, yet she had no one to throw the fire at.

Seeking Melvina meant missing the ritual’s preparation; preparing meant losing the chance to seek. Fish and bear’s paw, you can’t hold both, like trying to catch water and smoke.

Even if she found someone to dump the nameless fire on, she could only blame herself, like a mirror turned inward: if I hadn’t gone after Melvina—

Suddenly, the pipe organ on one side thundered awake, and sang a modulated Morning Hymn. The melody rolled like a tide, washing her vexed thoughts clean like stones in surf.

Sister Bertha walked slowly to the center of the Sacred Cathedral, her silhouette lining up with the stone goddess behind her, like moon and mountain.

Under every eye, she folded her hands at her lower belly, and once more recounted Priest John’s life, her words flowing like incense.

As the story neared its end, her tone shifted from soft to solemn, and she set down a grateful line, heavy as gold: “For your presence at Priest John’s memorial, we offer our deepest thanks.”

Alina slid quietly to another corner, trying to catch the nearby eyes like a moth to a lamp, silently saying, I’m here too—someone shut out of the rite.

Yet her movement drew no notice; everyone listened to Sister Bertha reading scripture, their minds steeped in the solemn air like tea.

By then, the last mourners had offered their sorrow. The Sacred Cathedral thinned to scattered shadows, then emptied like a drained tide.

Alina stepped to Priest John’s portrait, while stray chatter drifted past her ears like sparrows—plans for dinner, and a magic show next weekend.

The river of life kept murmuring forward, yet only the Priest stayed still like a stone in the stream.

“Alright.” Sister Bertha wrapped the sacred text in canvas with careful hands, like folding a sail, then turned to Alina. “Tell me about searching for Melvina.”

“So strange,” Alina said, confusion rising like mist. “Their memory of the Priest is so faint. The rite ends, and nothing remains.”

“No one wants to live inside grief… no, we’re talking about Melvina,” Sister Bertha said, steering the talk like a rudder.

“Nothing worth talking,” Alina said, her voice flat as ash.

“You didn’t make it clear,” Sister Bertha said, the bulging canvas held tight like a shield. “It sounded like you talked with her a lot. So why say you didn’t?”

“Because… she was talking to someone else…” Alina answered, words trickling like a thin stream.

“Eavesdropping?” Sister Bertha asked, eyebrow lifting like a reed.

Alina nodded, a small tilt like a leaf.

Several candles in the Sacred Cathedral guttered out, and shadows climbed the walls to the ceiling, revealing ranks of relief-like black.

“Looks like she wants to forget this place,” Bertha said with a stiff smile, brittle as frost. She knew the reason—she had pulled her onto that train, like pushing a boat from shore.

“She probably won’t attend my funeral either,” Bertha added, the joke falling like a cold pebble.

“I heard the townsfolk talk about the Holy Maiden,” Alina said, her voice pricking like thorns.

“That’s not your concern,” Bertha replied, her tone closing like a gate.

Alina held her tongue, her silence pooling like ink.

The sun shifted its angle, and white light seeped through the Sacred Cathedral’s cracks like milk through lace.

“You still want to choose Melvina?” After a long pause, Alina asked, her words slow as dusk. “Even if she’s cold to this place?”

Sister Bertha let out a helpless laugh, thin as a paper fan. “She’s not in the Sacred Cathedral. Choosing her—what use?”

“So you do want to choose her,” Alina pressed, voice tightening like a string.

“We need to discuss with the other sisters,” Bertha said. “Only then comes a conclusion,” her words stacked like stones.

“Melvina is the Priest’s chosen Holy Maiden,” Alina said, heat rising like noon. “He always wanted her to succeed him.”

“Cheryl… this isn’t your affair…” Sister Bertha said, the name falling like a familiar bell.

Alina fell silent again, her thoughts circling like crows.

Sister Bertha went on, gently. “Uh… do you have plans? After the funeral, other kids and some sisters want to leave. You?”

“I don’t know,” Alina said, the answer hollow as a shell.

“Didn’t you want to be an adventurer?” Bertha asked, memory flickering like a lamp. “You told Priest John that.”

“That depended on Melvina and the Priest being here,” Alina said, eyes dim as a rainy window. “When I saw fun things or strange customs, I had a pen pal to write to. But with neither here, who do I write to on the road?”

“So… you want to stay,” Sister Bertha said, her tone soft, almost pleading, like silk. “After all… everyone’s leaving…”

“You’re not leaving?” Alina asked, her voice curious as a child.

“My age could make me your grandma,” Bertha said, with a wry smile like a crack in pottery. “I’m not fit to wander.”

“It’s the first time I’ve heard you talk about yourself like that,” Alina said, words warm as steam. “If you can’t bear to part, you can say so.”

“You can go if you want,” Bertha said, her permission drifting like an open path.

Alina secretly clenched her fists, staring at a plain patch of floor, small as an island. Since Bertha wouldn’t continue the earlier topic, she struck first, driving the talk toward the urgent shore.

“When you discuss… who do you think suits being the Holy Maiden?” Alina asked, her gaze steady as a spear.

“We haven’t discussed,” Bertha answered, her voice flat as slate.

“If you did?” Alina pressed, the question hanging like a lantern.

For a long time, Sister Bertha gazed into Alina’s misted eyes, like looking into a foggy lake. Then she spoke, firm as iron: “Though everyone wants to be the Holy Maiden, you are the least suited.”

“Why?” Alina asked, the word sharp as flint.

“A Holy Maiden needs a quiet, studious child,” Bertha said, her judgment straight as a ruler.

“You mean Melvina?” Alina asked, her tone flicking like a blade.

“Cheryl—” Bertha began, her voice warning like thunder.

“The Priest must have been blind to choose her!” Alina spat, anger sparking like dry straw.

Smack!

Alina reeled, her body wobbling like a struck reed, her cheek burning hot as brandy. She stared at Sister Bertha in disbelief, eyes wide as moons.

“Was I wrong?” she asked, palm over her face like a shield. “Melvina feels nothing for this place! She just wants to cut us off!”

“Cheryl…” Bertha said, her voice low as twilight.

“Do you want to speak for her?” Alina pushed, words bristling like needles.

“Plainly, it’s temperament,” Bertha said, her tone clipped like shears. “Your mischief means you can’t be the Holy Maiden!”

“I can be the Holy Maiden,” Alina shot back, gaze slanted at Bertha like a blade. “Before he died, the Priest already treated me as—”

Her words snapped, like a record needle broken mid-song, and a new voice rose in her throat: “the Holy Maiden.”

“Because you were often with Melvina, he only wanted to use you to ease—” Sister Bertha suddenly closed her mouth, sorrow climbing from her lips to her face like ivy. “Cheryl… you truly aren’t suited.”

“Priest John mistook me for Melvina. That proves I have the Holy Maiden’s potential,” Alina insisted, her belief hard as bone.

“This matter—” Sister Bertha’s voice jumped, sharp as a bell. “He never mistook you for Melvina!”

Alina seemed not to hear, and she repeated, like a drumbeat: “The Sacred Cathedral needs a Holy Maiden. I can be her.”

“Cheryl… Cheryl…” Sister Bertha called, the name echoing like a fading chime.