João was born in a house where the air always smelled of incense, wax, and something else – dry, harsh, like an old belt. His father was a tall, narrow-faced man with a voice that never rose, but pressed down. From the earliest childhood João was made to kneel before he had even learned to walk steadily. Prayer sounded instead of a lullaby. Hands were folded in a cross, eyes were covered by a palm, and if he opened them too soon – a short, precise blow landed across his back.

His father spoke a great deal. About sins. About eternal fire. About how even a thought could become betrayal. He listed them calmly, as if reading a shopping list: pride, envy, disobedience, lust. João listened and nodded. But the words brought no peace. They settled inside him like a heavy, cold weight. The child began to believe that something was wrong with him. Because his thoughts kept slipping away. He thought about how much he wanted to run out of the house and never return. He thought about how he hated that voice, those hands, that endless preaching. And then, at night, when the house was already asleep, he would get out of bed, fall to his knees and whisper through tears:

"Forgive me... forgive me... I didn’t mean to..."

He beat his fists against his chest, repeated “I am a sinner” until his voice grew hoarse, until his body began to tremble. Purity never came. Only exhaustion and emptiness that grew deeper with every year.

At school he kept to himself. Other boys laughed, fought, chased after girls. João sat in the corner of the yard with a worn prayer book and pretended to read. Girls truly left him indifferent. Their voices, their laughter, the scent of perfume – all of it passed by like a foreign language. There was no formal prohibition. His father spoke only of “purity until marriage,” but even without a ban João felt nothing toward them. Only once, at thirteen, he caught himself staring too long at a classmate – at the way his hands moved, at the way the light fell on his neck. His heart struck so hard that João nearly lost consciousness. That evening he prayed until dawn, scratched the skin on his wrists with his nails and begged God to erase it from his memory.

The years passed. His father bound his son ever tighter to the Church. At eighteen João almost never left the house without dark clothing. At twenty-one he took his vows. Monastic life became both salvation and cage at once. Here it was quiet. Here he did not need to pretend. Here he could hide his eyes and whisper prayers until his body began to tremble from the strain. He made himself perfect. He never erred. He never sinned. He asked forgiveness even for those thoughts that had not yet taken shape.

The church smelled of wax, dust and old wood. Cold. Always cold.

João stood at the altar after evening service and slowly extinguished the candles one by one. The flame died beneath his fingers, leaving a thin thread of smoke. He did this every day. Year after year. The same way. Flawlessly.

Twenty-one years old. A monk. Perfect. The one his father had carved out of a living boy the way one carves an icon – with a knife and prayer. From childhood he had been forced to his knees. Beaten for thoughts. Made to ask forgiveness even for things he had not yet done. He hated. He cried. He hated even more. And then he learned to hate quietly – and to pray louder. He burned everything unnecessary out of himself. Became clean. Became correct. Became empty.

Almost.

In recent weeks that emptiness had begun to tremble.

He had started coming too often. That... man. Young. Too direct a gaze. Too confident steps. He appeared at morning Masses and remained after the evening ones. He sat closer than necessary. Looked longer than propriety allowed. Spoke quietly, as if by chance, yet always found himself nearby precisely when João was left alone.

João avoided him. Left earlier. Closed the confessional. Hid in the sacristy. Prayed until his voice grew hoarse, until his knees ached, until his fingers cramped around the rosary. But the man returned. Again and again. As if he could sense exactly where the armour had cracked.

Today João was late again. The candles were almost out when he heard the familiar footsteps behind him. Slow. Deliberate.

He did not turn around. Only clenched the rosary harder, until his knuckles went white, and said quietly, through his teeth:

"The church is already closing."

His voice came out steadier than he expected. Cold. Alien.

But inside, everything was burning.

João found out. Not at once. The rumors reached him in fragments – strangers’ voices in the parish kitchen, a word dropped after service, someone’s quiet snicker behind his back. A name. A place. A nightclub on the outskirts. What that man did for money. João listened and stayed silent. Inside everything clenched into a tight, burning knot, as if someone had squeezed his heart in a fist. He should have turned away. He should have erased that name from his memory. Instead he began to wait.

When the man appeared in the church again, João already knew. And he decided to save him.

He read him prayers. At length. Persistently. He spoke quietly, almost gently, about how the body is a temple, how lust is the path into the abyss, how the Lord will forgive if only a man renounces the filth. That a man with a man is not love, but a sickness of the soul, a distortion that must be burned out. He repeated it again and again, looking straight into his eyes. And every time he felt his own heart quicken traitorously. How his fingers trembled slightly when he held out the rosary. How his voice grew lower and softer the moment the other man stepped a little closer. How heat rose beneath the cassock – heat that should not have been there.

The words that were meant to heal the other slowly, mercilessly corroded João himself.

Then the man stopped coming.

First one day. Then a second. João caught himself staring too often at the heavy oak door. Listening for every footstep in the empty nave. Staying in the church later than usual in the evenings, extinguishing the candles more slowly, as if hoping. The emptiness he had so carefully built inside himself through years of prayer and self-flagellation suddenly began to roar. Cold. Hollow. Hungry.

On the third evening he went out into the city.

Just to walk, he told himself. Just to stretch his legs after a long service. His feet carried him of their own accord to the familiar street. The club glowed with dull red lights, like an open wound in the dark. Music drifted out low and heavy, a beat that echoed in his chest. João stopped under the old tree opposite. The bark was rough under his palm. He pulled his hood lower over his face, breathing fast and shallow. He looked up at the windows on the upper floor. And suddenly he saw him.

A familiar silhouette.

For a moment he froze. The air grew thick, heavy. Then he stepped forward. His heart pounded so hard it roared in his ears, drowning even the distant music. He told himself he was going to help. That the man might have strayed from the path. That a monk’s duty was not to leave a sinner in the dark. But the truth was simpler and more terrifying: he missed him. Until it ached in his ribs. Until his mouth went dry. Until his hands shook when he pulled the door open.

He entered, trying not to raise his eyes. Hood low, shoulders hunched, steps quick, almost running. Inside it smelled of smoke, cheap alcohol, sweat and something heavy, sweetishly rotten. The light was red, low, sticky. It clung to the walls, to faces, to bodies. The music hammered at his temples with heavy blows. João moved along the wall, searching with his eyes, and every step echoed inside him with anxiety and something else – dark, greedy and forbidden.

And he found him.

In the far corner. At a table. With another man. Too close. A hand on a stranger’s thigh. Laughter that João had only ever heard in a whisper inside an empty church. Too... his.

Something sharp and filthy stabbed beneath his ribs. Jealousy. Hot, shameful, impossible. It rose all at once – from his stomach to his throat, choking his breath, forcing his fingers into fists under the wide sleeves. João stopped. In the same instant their eyes met.

He flinched as if he had been struck open-handed.

For a second the world narrowed to the two eyes opposite him. To the red light on another man’s skin. To his own wildly beating heart. Then João turned sharply away. Spun around. Almost ran for the exit, yanking the hood even lower, feeling his cheeks burn, his hands shake traitorously, everything beneath the cassock blaze with shame and rage and something else.

Outside the cold air struck his face, sharp as a slap. He walked quickly, never looking back, whispering the same prayer through his teeth. But the words crumbled before they could form. And inside, everything was still burning.

Half a year this man had not left him in peace. He came to every service – morning, midday, evening. He sat closer and closer. Looked longer and longer. Spoke softer and softer, yet every word seemed to settle right beneath the skin. João retreated. Hid in the sacristy. Closed the confessional earlier than required. Prayed until his voice grew hoarse, until his knees bled, until his fingers cramped around the rosary in spasms. He told himself it was a trial. That the Lord was testing his steadfastness. That he simply had to endure.

But at night, lying on the hard bed in his cell, he still heard the other man’s voice. Still saw that gaze. And his heart beat so hard it felt as if it were trying to tear its way out of his chest.

That evening the church was completely empty. The service had ended an hour ago. The last parishioners had long since gone. All that remained was the smell of dying wax, the cold stone underfoot, and the quiet crackle of the candles at the altar. João slowly extinguished them one by one. The flame died beneath his fingers, leaving thin threads of smoke that rose toward the dark vaults. He did this every day. The same way. Flawlessly. Like everything else in his life.

He heard the footsteps too late.

The heavy oak door closed with a dull sound. João froze with an unextinguished candle in his hand. He turned – and the blood drained from his face.

The man stood in the middle of the nave. Alone. Without the usual light smile. Without that detached calm. He simply looked. Straight. Insistently. The way he had looked all these six months. Only now there was something final in that gaze.

João felt everything inside him clench. He wanted to say that the church was already closed. Wanted to order him to leave. Wanted to turn away and keep extinguishing the candles as if nothing were happening. But his legs would not obey. He stood motionless while the man walked slowly between the rows of pews. Each step echoed in the empty church and, at the same time, somewhere deep in João’s chest.

And then the words came.

A proposal.

Simple. Direct. Without jokes. Without hints. Real.

João recoiled so sharply that his back struck the cold marble of the altar. The candle slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor, leaving a thin trail of wax. The rosary followed, landing softly against the stone. He did not even notice. A roar filled his ears. The world swam before his eyes. His entire body felt as if it had turned to stone and was burning from within at the same time.

"No..." he exhaled hoarsely, almost soundlessly. Then louder, breaking: "No."

He shook his head as if he could shake off what he had heard. His hands trembled so violently that he gripped the edge of the altar until his knuckles went white. Fragments flashed through his mind – the red light of the club, a stranger’s hand on a thigh, the jealousy that had stabbed so sharply then, the shame that still burned, the hunger he had been choking with prayers for months.

"You... you don’t understand," his voice shook, cracked. "This is impossible. This is a sin. This..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the other man’s silhouette still stood before his inner sight. Too close. Too real. João opened his eyes abruptly. Horror flooded them – pure, animal, mixed with something else that made it even more terrifying.

"I can’t," he whispered. Then almost shouted, as if defending himself: "I am already married to God!!"