June 23, 1986
God's favor smiled upon me and my wife this day.
It has been two weeks since we were forced to abandon our home in the mountains—circumstances I still cannot fully understand, nor wish to dwell upon any longer. We wandered without direction, without food, without hope. My wife grew weaker by the day, and the child she carried weighed heavily on my mind.
In desperation, I broke into a nearby church, prepared to face whatever punishment would follow.
But none came.
Instead, we were met with kindness.
The bishop, a man of gentle voice and calm demeanor, forgave my transgression without hesitation. He offered us food, shelter—salvation, in a sense I had long thought beyond reach.
He told us that God had not abandoned us.
That the child my wife carries is blessed.
I believed him.
July 2, 1986
It has been over a week since we were taken in, and life has improved in ways I scarcely thought possible.
The cathedral is lively, filled with people devoted to their faith. The nuns have taken a liking to my wife, often keeping her company throughout the day. They speak to her of motherhood, of children raised under God's watchful eye. She smiles more now. It has been some time since I last saw her like that.
Yesterday, she told me something the bishop had said.
That our arrival here was not mere chance.
That it was fate.
She believes this wholeheartedly. She says it was my good deeds that led us here, that guided us into this sanctuary.
I do not know if that is true.
But I want to believe it is.
July 11, 1986
Two weeks have passed.
The bishop joins us for dinner often now—more often than I would expect from a man of his standing. He speaks kindly, asks after my wife's health, places a hand upon her shoulder in reassurance. She seems comforted by his presence.
I should be as well.
After all, what safer place could there be than this?
A house of God, where His gaze is ever-present.
Where we are always being watched over.
…
I tell myself that is what it is.
July 25, 1986
My wife has gone into labor.
It has been three days since I last saw her.
The bishop and several of the higher-ranking priests took her below the cathedral, into the catacombs. They said it was necessary—that special care was required for a safe delivery.
I tried to follow.
I begged.
But the nun at the entrance stopped me.
She said the pope himself had given strict orders.
No one is to enter.
No one.
These were the same words I had been given the nights prior, when they first took her below.
I do not understand.
I hear nothing from beneath. No cries. No movement.
Nothing.
…
I think—
No.
I know.
We should have left when we had the chance.
August 6, 1988
My name is Abel.
The bishop gave me this journal today. He said it once belonged to my father.
He also told me that my father left the day I was born.
I thought I would feel something when I heard that.
Anger, maybe.
But I don't.
I think I should.
He said my mother died giving birth to me.
I don't remember her.
But I don't feel sad either.
…
I have a test later today, so I will end this here.
I hope my father found what he was looking for.
May God guide him.
August 12, 1988
The bishop looked pleased today.
So I think I did well.
The test was difficult, but I endured it. I always do. The priests said nothing, but I heard them speaking among themselves afterward. They sounded… satisfied.
That made me happy.
They even gave me cake.
It was sweet.
I think I like days like this.
I hope the next test will be the same.
September 15, 1988
They looked disappointed today.
All of them.
Even though the test was easier than the ones before it.
I thought that meant I was improving.
But no one said anything.
The bishop only looked at me once.
His eyes were different.
Lower.
As if he was looking at something beneath him.
I don't understand.
Why does that make me feel afraid?
September 18, 1988
They tried again today.
Nothing changed.
The bishop did not look at me at all this time.
Not even once.
I called out to him, but he did not respond.
One of the older sisters came to me afterward. She smiled and said I would be going somewhere new—that I was going to be "adopted."
Her voice was kind.
But her eyes were not.
…
Is it normal for people to smile when they are lying?
God, can you tell me?
March 21, 1990
I was adopted today.
This is the first time I have held this journal in two years.
The priests took it from me before I was moved to the orphanage. They said it was no longer necessary.
I never asked why.
The other children were afraid of me.
They tried not to show it, but I could tell.
Now I am here.
With people I do not know.
But I think… this is a good thing.
A new beginning.
Like genesis.
I hope God is watching over me.
April 4, 1990
Two weeks have passed.
Things are… good.
I have a little brother now.
He is not afraid of me.
He smiles when he sees me.
My new parents are kind. Not the same kind as the bishop—but something warmer. Something that doesn't make me feel like I am being watched.
I think I understand now.
This feeling—
It is safety.
It is happiness.
…
This will be my last entry.
I do not think I need this journal anymore.
To my real Dad—
Thank you for loving my mom.
And to father, who guided me here—
Thank you.
-
The year was 1994.
The exact date… I cannot remember.
But I know—
I will never forget this day.
If I am even given the chance to remember anything at all.
Mother was gone.
Father too.
Shirou—
…Shirou was nowhere to be found.
There was nothing left.
Only the sound of something collapsing in the distance, and the overwhelming scent of burning wood and ash choking the air. Thick, black smoke curled along the ceiling, slowly filling the space that had once been my home.
The walls groaned.
The floor trembled beneath my feet.
This place—
This place I once called home—
was falling apart.
I lowered my gaze.
There, half-buried beneath soot and debris, was something familiar.
A journal.
Brown. Worn. Old.
I reached for it without thinking.
My hands trembled as I brushed away the soot clinging to its cover. The edges were already blackened, curling inward as the heat ate away at it piece by piece.
"No…"
The word left my lips before I could stop it.
I opened it carefully, flipping through the pages—only to see them slowly turning to ash before my eyes.
The entries—
His entries—
were burning.
I pressed my sleeve against the embers, trying to smother them, ignoring the sharp sting that crawled up my arm.
It hurt.
But that didn't matter.
Not now.
The pages turned.
One after another.
Faster.
Slower.
I didn't know which.
I only knew I needed to see them.
To remember them.
Before they were gone.
My eyes traced the familiar handwriting.
Then my own.
Words written years apart, now meeting their end together.
A loud crack echoed behind me.
I looked up.
The doorway. A burning pillar had collapsed across it, flames licking hungrily at the frame, devouring any path that might have led outside.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then—
I understood.
I was going to die here.
"…1994."
My voice came out dry.
Weak.
It broke halfway through, swallowed by a fit of coughing as smoke filled my lungs.
I dropped to the floor, instinct taking over.
I crawled beneath the bed, clutching the journal tightly against my chest. The flames outside cast flickering shadows through the small space, turning the pages gold and red as I opened it one last time.
If this was the end—
Then I wanted to leave something behind.
My hands shook as I began to write.
"The past years were amazing."
The words felt distant.
Like they belonged to someone else.
"I love my family, and my family loved me back."
Mother's smile came to mind first.
Warm.
Gentle.
Always there when I needed her.
"I had an amazing mother who took care of me and made me smile when I needed it most."
Then Father.
Steady.
Reliable.
Someone I never had to doubt.
"I had a great father who was always there for me."
My grip tightened.
"And even now, I know he is out there."
A pause.
A breath that didn't come easily.
"For the best little brother in the world."
Shirou.
His smile.
His voice.
The way he would look at me without fear.
"Shirou… I am happy I got to meet him."
The heat grew stronger.
Closer.
The wood above creaked, threatening to give in at any moment.
Still—
I kept writing.
"Even now, as this fire creeps closer and the end is near…"
A sharp crack.
Something fell.
Pain exploded through my legs as a burning beam collapsed onto them, pinning me in place.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't move.
My body trembled violently as the pain spread, raw and unforgiving.
But my hand—
Still moved.
The ink smeared slightly as tears fell onto the page.
"…I am filled with nothing but happiness."
The words blurred.
"That I was able to live these years with them."
Another breath.
Shallow.
Fading.
"This world is beautiful."
My vision dimmed.
The flames no longer felt distant.
They were everywhere now.
"Thank you… for letting me experience it."
The pen slipped slightly.
I tightened my grip.
Forced it steady.
"The only regret I have…"
My hand trembled.
"…is leaving without being able to give anything back."
The heat swallowed everything.
Sound.
Thought.
Feeling.
"I hope… Shirou… Mother… Father… are safe."
The final line trailed.
Unfinished.
The journal slipped from my hand.
The heat came first.
Then the light.
Then—
nothing.
He did not know how long he had been lying there.
There was no pain.
No sound.
No sense of time.
Only stillness.
…How long has it been?
A voice answered.
"…It's been three days, huh?"