The church seemed smaller than Rof remembered. That was often the case with childhood memories; they had a way of amplifying things - higher ceilings, heavier doors, and an overall greater significance. Rof paused on the church steps, allowing himself a brief moment of nostalgic disappointment before shaking it off.
The same stone structure, same age-darkened wooden doors, the same iron cross that had weathered from black to a deep brown over the years. A small sign by the door read St. Augustine's. All are welcome. All means all. Pushing open the door, Rof stepped inside.
The church interior was warm and dimly lit, carrying the familiar scent of candle wax and old wood. That scent hit him first, even before he noticed the stained-glass windows casting colorful light across the pews, the altar at the far end, or the lone figure sitting in the second pew row. That scent brought back memories of his father leading him down this very aisle when he was seven.
Rof stood in the doorway for a moment, then walked in. He didn't head straight to the front, but chose a pew in the middle on the left side. He sat down, removed his jacket and placed it beside him. His cross necklace slipped out from under his shirt, and he let it hang against his chest.
The church was mostly empty, save for a woman in the back with bowed head, a maintenance man quietly going about his work, and the figure in the second row, who had been there when Rof arrived. An elderly man with broad shoulders, dressed in a plain gray sweater. He wasn't a priest, just another soul seeking solace.
Rof understood that.
He stared at the altar, his gaze lingering on the fragments of red, amber, and deep blue light that the stained glass windows cast onto the floor. His mind wandered freely, drifting to a white room, a photograph of a smiling boy, and the name E. Voss at the bottom of a decommissioned document.
He pondered over the implications of his abilities being deliberately implanted within him by a person with an unknown motive. Did that make his abilities any less his own?
He sat with that thought for a while, as the colors on the floor moved with the shifting light. Eventually, he came to a conclusion.
A man could plant a tree for his own reasons and care for it according to his plans. But once the tree started growing, it followed its own path. It sent roots where it wanted, and reached for light of its own accord. It became its own entity, regardless of the planter's intentions. Whatever E. Voss had implanted in him as a child, it was now Rof's.
It had been his the moment he stood up after taking a punch from Silas, the moment he watched a man from a third-floor window to understand what solitude looked like, the moment he instinctively dodged Tank's hook and won his first fight.
That man wasn't manufactured. That man evolved.
He glanced at his cross necklace. "I don't know what he thought he was creating," he murmured softly. "But I know who I am, and what I'm fighting for." He looked up at the altar. "Keep him alive," he pleaded, referring to his father. "Just keep him alive long enough for him to sit on a porch and enjoy a cup of coffee without coughing."
He sat in the quiet church for another twenty minutes, not praying with words, but simply existing in the silence, much like his father with his open Bible.
As Rof got up to leave, the broad-shouldered man in the second row turned around. Rof didn't recognize him - a rugged face marked with scars, and eyes that held a calmness often found in men who have faced dangerous situations.
"You fight," the man stated, his gaze fixed on Rof's callused and bruised knuckles.
"Why?" Rof questioned.
"I used to have hands like that," the man replied.
"Are you good?" he asked.
"Getting there," Rof replied.
The man studied Rof for a moment, then handed him a card with an address and a name - Manny Reyes. "There's a gym on Carpenter Street. It's mine now. If you need somewhere to train that isn't a driveway, you're welcome to come."
"Why?" Rof asked again.
"Because you came in and embraced the silence," Manny replied. "You didn't bring your noise and aim it at the ceiling. That's rarer than you think."
Manny buttoned his jacket and started walking towards the exit. "But twelve days is not a lot of time, whatever you're preparing for."
Rof turned. "I didn't tell you about the twelve days."
"No," Manny said, looking over his shoulder. "You didn't."
With that, he left, leaving Rof standing in the middle of the church with a simple card in his hand, a cross against his chest, and a strange feeling of being swept up in something that had already begun.
He glanced at the card, then at the altar. He put the card in his pocket, next to the photograph of the smiling boy, and walked out into the cold.
Twelve days.