Echoes of the Departed

    

    The church was nearly empty when the young man came in from the rain. He sat in the back pew, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. The candles near the altar burned low, their light wavering against the stone. An old priest standing nearby had seen that look before. They were the eyes of someone whose soul had turned inward, searching for the one thing he could no longer touch. He did not call out. The priest simply walked to the pew and sat beside him.

    For a long while, neither spoke. The silence between them felt like a prayer left unfinished. Then the priest cleared his throat and said quietly, “There was once a boy who thought his love could bridge the grave.”

    The young man lifted his head. “Father?”

    But the priest wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were far away; in a place the body could leave but the heart never could. “He was a little younger than you,” the priest continued. “He loved a girl with all the foolish devotion that only youth can afford. She was gentle. Bright. The sort of soul that made you think of all the colors in an ocean sunset. And then —” He exhaled, the air trembling in his throat. “— she died. Suddenly. Without warning. No reason the heart could understand.”

    The boy — because that’s what he had been — stayed after the funeral when everyone had gone. He lay down beside her grave to feel the earth that covered her, and there, in his grief, he wept until he could not tell his tears from the rain.

    And then he felt it: a hand, cold and trembling, taking his own.

    He opened his eyes and saw his lover’s spirit rising from the soil, her form shining faintly, as though made of mist and moonlight. She smiled at him with sorrowful tenderness and said, “It was no accident.” The priest’s voice lowered, the memory still carrying its old chill. “The boy believed it was a miracle! Love had defied death. God had pitied him enough to return her for a little while. And so, he listened when she spoke. She told him secrets, things she could not have known in life: how the driver who struck her had vanished, how her death had been plotted, how he could help her find peace. She began to visit more often. At first, in dreams. Then, in mirrors. Then in the dark corner of his room.”

    The candles flickered. The young man leaned forward, drawn in despite himself.

    “She told him,” Said the priest with a long ominous sigh, “‘Light a candle for me at midnight. Speak my name, and I will come.’ And he, blinded by affection, did as she commanded. Then she asked for small things: a drop of his blood, a lock of her hair from the grave, an old ring he had gifted to her. ‘Just so I may stay longer,’ she said.”

    He shook his head slowly. “But she was staying because he was keeping her. He did not realize what he had called.”

    One night, Fr. Macarius, may his memory be eternal, came to bless the house. He saw the shadows lingering, felt the weight in the air. He gave the boy a small crucifix and told him, ‘Pray with this. Hold fast. Whatever visits you at night is not the one you lost.’

    “The boy wanted to believe him, but he was so desperate. That night, when the girl appeared again, he held up the crucifix and asked who she really was. She smiled at first…then her face broke apart. Her voice grew deep and full of mockery. She screamed that he had abandoned her, that he was hers, and that she would never leave.”

    The young man in the pew drew back slightly disturbed. “What did he do?”

    “What every soul must do,” said the priest. “He prayed the words Fr. Macarius had shown him in the little book. He called upon God, upon Michael the Archangel, upon the saints. He begged forgiveness, begged for light. The air grew heavy; the candles burst. And then… she came.”

    “Who?”

    “His true love,” the priest whispered through tears. “The girl’s true spirit. She was radiant, not pale but golden, as though she carried morning with her. She touched his cheek and said, ‘Do not mourn me as lost. Live. Pray. And remember…there is no death, only light.’ Then she was gone. And he was alone again. But he was free from despair comforted by her words and prayers.”

    The church fell quiet except for the rain against the tiled roof.

    The priest folded his hands. “That boy,” he said softly, “was me.”

    The young man blinked. “You?”

    “Yes. My grief nearly damned my soul. It was a grief leading to despair instead of repentance, thus I invited darkness. But the light saved me, as it will save you if you let it. Do not give despair a name, my son. Demons wait at the door of every broken heart, pretending to be the ones we miss.”

    He reached into his pocket and took out a small, tarnished crucifix, the silver worn thin from years of handling. He placed it gently in the young man’s palm. “Keep this,” he said. “And when grief speaks, answer it not with ritual or longing, but with prayer. The dead need not our sorrow. Only our love, the kind that trusts in God to keep them safe.”

    The candles were nearly out now. The last flame trembled, casting one final glow upon the icon above the altar. The young man bowed his head, tears falling quietly onto the old wood of the pew.

    The priest rose, laying a hand on his shoulder. And as he walked away, he murmured the words that had become his life’s confession:

    “There is no death.

    There is only light.

    Death is defeated.

    It is no more.”