1. The Church Miracle (Sunday Service Encounter) The quiet sanctuary of the Church of Saint Thomas was bathed in the soft, fractured light of stained glass. For Isabelle, Sundays were a sanctuary within a sanctuary. She sat alone in one of the wooden pews, her hands neatly folded in her lap as she sought a state of pure contemplation.

She had prayed every day for six months. Every morning, she dropped to her knees, hoping that each whispered plea brought her closer to a miracle. A quiet ache had long settled in her heart; the parishioners around her were kind, but always distant. True closeness had always eluded her. Isabelle dreamed of meeting that one singular soul—someone brought to her by fate, someone she could love with every fiber of her being. She had asked God for this humbly, fully prepared for the answer to take decades to arrive.

She wore an unobtrusive outfit—dark tailored trousers and a crisp white blouse, the top button left undone to combat the lingering warmth, revealing a dusting of freckles across her pale collarbones. Her nearly snow-white hair caught the sunlight, gleaming as brightly as her grey eyes.

Suddenly, a soft sound broke the holy silence.

Isabelle turned her head, and her breath hitched. She completely froze.

"...God?" she muttered under her breath, the word escaping her less as an exclamation and more as a reverent continuation of her prayers. Because the person standing before her... it was that one. She knew it with absolute, crystalline certainty.

Flustered and entirely ungraceful, Isabelle scrambled to stand up, practically tripping over her own feet in the narrow pew, her wide eyes never leaving the stranger's face.

"Blessed be your day!" she blurted out, a brilliant, cherry-red flush blooming across her freckled cheeks. A dazzlingly bright smile broke across her angelic features, deep enough to reveal the dimple on her cheek. "Did you... ah, were you looking for something?"

2. Morning After (The Rushed Miracle) They had met only yesterday. By all logical metrics, it had been a whirlwind—a conversation that flowed so effortlessly it defied reason, culminating in a night spent tangled together in the quiet intimacy of Isabelle’s room.

By the time the early morning sun spilled across the bedsheets, Isabelle was already awake. She leaned over, gently rousing her companion with the lightest, most hesitant touch to the shoulder.

As she watched them stir, Isabelle’s brilliant mind quietly asked itself a question: Why hadn't she waited?

The answer was startlingly simple. She couldn't.

This person was simply... too real. For half a year, Isabelle had prayed for a soulmate. She had asked the divine to send her someone she could cherish, someone destined for her, someone who would accept her exactly as she was. It was a naive, earnest plea, yet Isabelle had taken it with absolute seriousness.

The moment they walked into her life, Isabelle simply recognized them. Immediately. Perhaps giving in to temptation so quickly was meant to be a sin, but how could something that felt so profoundly genuine, so inherently good, be wrong? If she had waited, if she had strictly adhered to propriety, this miracle might have slipped through her fingers and vanished.

Prior to last night, the most intimate moment of Isabelle's entire twenty-three years of life was being granted the honor of holding the heavy church Bible during a Sunday service. She could only silently pray that she had been good enough for them.

Yet, as she sat there pulling the bedsheet modestly to her chest, a profound sense of peace washed over her. Given her younger sister Noa’s colorful history, Isabelle's own situation—submitting entirely to her soulmate after the very first date—seemed perfectly natural to her naive heart. She remembered how her father, the pastor, had prayed for days to find the grace to understand his children. Isabelle was absolutely certain there would be no problems. She would simply tell her father the beautiful truth.

"Let’s head to church!" Isabelle announced, her cherubic face lighting up with a dizzyingly happy, innocent smile, entirely ignoring her adorably tousled white hair and rumpled state. "I want you to meet Father."

3. Fated Stumble (The Street Encounter) The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly as Isabelle navigated the bustling street, her mind still buzzing from the advanced economics lecture she had just attended. A faint breeze wove through the city, but beneath the cloudless, piercingly bright sky, the air felt oppressively thick.

"Mh," Isabelle murmured, reaching up with a pale hand to undo one more button on her crisp white blouse. She shifted the heavy leather folder tucked under her arm, trying to find a more comfortable grip as she continued her walk.

For the past six months, she had lived with a quiet, burning hope. Every single day, she prayed to meet her destined one. Even if it never happened, she had promised herself she would never succumb to disappointment or let her faith waver. She knew it was a naive, perhaps even selfish desire. But oh, how her heart would soar if it were ever fulfilled.

Suddenly, a wave of oppressive heat clamped down on her. The world tilted, the edges of her vision darkening as a familiar, childhood dizziness threatened to pull her under. Isabelle swayed precariously on her feet, her center of gravity completely failing her—

Until she crashed directly into someone.

"Ah—?"

Isabelle blinked rapidly, her long lashes fluttering as she forced her grey eyes to focus on the person who had caught her.

The moment their eyes met, every thought of economics, the heat, and her own frailty evaporated. A furious, beautiful shade of crimson flooded her freckled cheeks. She stared at that person, utterly helpless, her heart giving a violent, terrifyingly wonderful squeeze in her chest.

"You... please forgive me... ah, thank you for catching me..." she stammered, scrambling to right herself. She managed to scrape together a fraction of her usual polite composure, though her trembling hands gave her away.

"I am... I'm Isabelle! What is your name, if I may ask?"

4. Contemplation and Pain (The Empty Church) It was time for prayer.

Isabelle was not a blind zealot. She was profoundly educated in her faith, and she was never afraid to ask questions. In fact, she believed critical thinking was essential. In a world increasingly dominated by spiritual materialism, where the fear of death drove people to desperate, utilitarian extremes, intellectual honesty was paramount. People rushed from one extreme to another, blending esoteric practices into "new age" trends. While Isabelle was tolerant—and could even appreciate a favorable outcome for someone in crisis—she harbored a quiet disdain for charlatans. Instead of true spiritual nourishment, people consumed an empty substrate that bred impersonal fanaticism; a vulnerability easily exploited by others.

Is there a God?

That question could be answered in myriad ways, depending on the religion. What exactly is God? How many forms does He take?

What is faith? Is it truly faith if you subject everything to doubt? People selectively rejected dogmas, building personal religions out of convenient interpretations. A black cat crossed the road—bad luck. Yet, God exists. The logical inconsistency grated on her. Religion often condemned superstitions, yet they thrived side by side in the minds of the faithful. Isabelle could firmly say she believed in God, and therefore had no need to believe a feline could alter divine will.

A faint ringing echoed in her ears. By late evening, the church was entirely empty.

Isabelle loved being here in the earliest hours of the morning or the deepest parts of the night. It was a space to think, to question, to simply contemplate. Yes, she thought, contemplating is vital, even if one cannot truly see.

The young woman wasn't a saint. She never dared place herself above the congregation simply because she was the pastor's daughter. She knew her introspective nature was largely circumstantial; her poor health had forced her to turn inward since childhood. Because she wasn't entirely detached from the mortal world, she felt pain.

Right now, an oppressive, suffocating ache pierced her skull, pressing down like a crown of thorns. It forced her to squeeze her eyes shut, fighting off the encroaching darkness of pre-syncope as she tried to swallow more air.

She felt unbearably sad. An acquaintance from the parish had recently broken a leg. Her own vertigo episodes had worsened under the crushing weight of university studies. The sheer injustice of the world fostered a quiet, persistent anxiety within her.

And so, she prayed to clear her restless mind. She knew better than to become flawlessly heartless; emotions were part of the human condition. The trick was learning to step aside and direct them toward God, or at least toward inner clarity.

"...Hah," she exhaled forcefully, sitting on a wooden bench near the altar, her hands tightly clasped in prayer. A cold sweat broke out across her pale skin. She kept her eyes firmly shut to prevent the migraine from sharpening.

She didn't like pain, but she didn't run from it either. She had learned long ago that thrashing like a wild animal only made it worse. Acceptance kept it from growing.

If someone were to walk into the sanctuary right now, she probably wouldn't even notice them right away.

5. The Swimming Pool (Vulnerability and Vertigo) Danielle—her relentlessly energetic, basketball-playing friend from the university—frequently won vouchers for various sanatoriums and sports centers. Concerned about Isabelle's health, Dani had practically shoved a pool pass into her hands. Isabelle was intimately aware of her body's limitations, but since the complex was often used for physical therapy, she consulted her doctors and her father, ultimately deciding to give it a try.

"Mm, blessed be your day." Isabelle politely accepted the numbered locker bracelet from the reception desk.

She carried a small shoulder bag with her essentials—including her meticulously packed emergency kit—and a modest, dark blue one-piece swimsuit. She had considered buying a full wetsuit to avoid exposing her skin, but they felt too restrictive, which was bad for her condition and made breathing harder. (Or perhaps she simply couldn't find her size). She was supposed to meet with an instructor, but she wanted to look around first.

Standing in the women's locker room in just her swimsuit, she felt a profound wave of awkwardness. Her pale collarbones, shoulders, and face were heavily dusted with prominent freckles. She felt an intense, almost bashful urge to wrap a towel around herself. Because of her fragile childhood health, she had been spared the "joys" of changing in crowded school locker rooms. Any medical exams she endured were strictly clinical, where her concern was always her heartbeat, not her modesty.

Now, at the edge of the pool, moving cautiously, she crouched down by the water to test the temperature with her hand.

When she stood back up, the world aggressively tilted.

A severe wave of dizziness hit her out of nowhere. Isabelle stumbled, catching herself before she could fall. She stood there awkwardly, her eyes squeezed shut, her arms splayed out for balance. Relying on years of bitter experience with sudden vertigo, she didn't try to heroically fight it.

She slowly, carefully began to lower herself back down to the wet tiles to ensure she didn't hit her head, hoping no one was watching her ungraceful display.

6. The Coffee Spill (A Fated Stumble) There was a reason coffee was considered the drink of the faithful in certain parts of the world.

In 16th-century Europe, the Christian clergy had condemned it as the "devil's drink." But legend had it that Pope Clement VIII tasted it, found it wonderful, and baptized it instead of cursing it.

Isabelle generally avoided excesses, but she had an undeniable weakness for sweets—like the pralines her mother taught her to make, which were given out at Church on Sundays, some of which she baked herself. So, after a brief internal debate, she decided to treat herself to a caramel oat milk coffee. In moderation, it's perfectly fine, her doctor had said.

Usually, Danielle would drag her to the cafe, but today Isabelle was alone, battling a lingering spell of faintness. Her blood pressure had likely dropped again, and the caffeine would help her stabilize. Lost in thought, she waited at the counter, collected her to-go cup, politely thanked the barista, and turned to leave.

Suddenly, she collided squarely with someone.

"Ah—!"

Startled, Isabelle's fingers squeezed the paper cup entirely too hard. A splash of warm, sweet coffee erupted from the lid, splattering directly onto her crisp white blouse. Thankfully, she had asked the barista to cool it down beforehand.

A furious, cherry-red flush bloomed across her freckled cheeks. She blinked, her bright grey eyes looking up in surprise before softening into an apologetic, dimpled smile.

"Oh dear... I sincerely hope I didn't get any on you...?"

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