A believer’s diary

Compared to the bustling marketplace,the Church of Creation in the city’s east was quiet as a tomb.

A freckled child pushed open the heavy oak door.

Inside, stained-glass light speared through the air,turning drifting dust motes into floating gold.

Old Charn, the church elder, sat before the altar,an ancient sheepskin scroll resting on his knees.

“Grandpa Charn! Her Majesty and the Princess are back!”

“The streets are so lively! I ate free bread and candy—so happy!”

“Pfft, you glutton! A few treats and you’re thrilled?

For me, the best part is school’s canceled today!”

“I knew it! With Her Majesty’s power, she chopped the evil dragon’s head clean off!”

A flock of orphans—Charn’s surrogate grandchildren—swarmed the old man like chattering sparrows,

spilling over with joy.

Though they’d never known parental love,Charn had raised them as his own,spending his meager stipend on their clothes and books,telling them stories in this very chapel.

“Grandpa Charn, will you tell us a dragon-slaying story today?”

A chubby boy waved his hand eagerly.

Charn’s eyes crinkled into warm wrinkles.

“Of course. Today, I’ll tell you of Her Majesty as a young girl,roaming the land, slaying monsters, protecting the innocent!”

The children’s eyes shone like stars.

And so Charn began—a tale of a young heroine,of courage, of justice, of dragons felled by a silver blade.

The story flowed from afternoon into dusk,ending only as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“Wow! So Her Majesty was that amazing even as a girl?

I’ll grow up to be just like her—beautiful and strong!

I’ll defeat all the bad guys and dragons!”

A pigtailed girl puffed her chest with pride.

“I’ll be like the knight in Her Majesty’s adventuring party—

strong enough to protect the people… and the girl I love!”

A boy declared with fierce conviction.

“Then when we grow up,” said the eldest,

“we’ll form our own adventuring party—

roam the world, uphold justice, slay dragons,

and become heroes!”

“Yeah! Deal!”

They slapped palms, sealing a childhood oath beneath the fading light.

“Dreaming of heroism is noble,” Charn said gently,

“but grow strong first. Go—dinner awaits.”

“Thanks, Grandpa Charn!”

They scampered off—but Charn’s smile faded as he counted them.

“Where’s little Jack?”

“He’s probably playing marbles behind the church! He hates stories!”

One child called back.

“I’ll fetch him,” Charn murmured.

But as he turned toward the rear exit,a flicker of shadow passed over his aged face.

Behind the church,where the grounds met the darkening forest,twilight had already bled into gloom.

Clink! Clink!

Jack was utterly absorbed,chasing his prized rainbow-glass marble through the underbrush.

“Oops!”

He flicked too hard—the marble rolled far, vanishing into the woods.

He sprinted after it—only to stop at a small wooden cabin at the forest’s edge.

He’d seen it slip under the door.

But this was Grandpa Charn’s cabin—

a place the old man strictly forbade them to enter.

Yet Jack loved that marble.

After a long hesitation,he pushed the door open.

A draft fluttered the dusty Bible on the table—

pages whispering like secrets.

The air was cold, stale.

Jack dropped to his knees,crawling under the bed,nose pressed to the moldy floorboards,

reaching deep into the darkness.

His fingers brushed rough black cloth.

Holding his breath, he pulled it out.

“What’s this…?”

Beneath the cloth lay a leather-bound journal,

its edges worn soft by time.

He knew he shouldn’t—

but curiosity won.

He opened it.

And froze.

Diary

Dragonheart Calendar, Year 1010, March 17 — Overcast

Today was the first.
I hesitated.
But the Pope said: “For the Sacred Mission.”
If I complete one hundred, my daughter with consumption
will receive the Church’s finest healing.

For faith… for my child… I did it.

I held out the candy laced with sleeping draught.
Little Tommy ran to me—just six years old, loved to draw.
Yesterday, he gave me a picture of the sun: “Uncle, this is for you—it brings light.”

Now he sleeps in my arms, breath soft as moth wings.

The stone walls of the cellar are so cold.
When I cut his drawing hands, my own shook…
and his body trembled too.

I closed my eyes—but heard the blood drip into the clay bowl.
Drip… drip… drip…
Just like my daughter’s cough at night.

The Pope’s “Pure Blood” filled the bowl.
I spilled a drop on Tommy’s sun.
The paper bloomed dark red.

…I think I am damned.

Dragonheart Calendar, Year 1010, April 3 — Rain

The twentieth.
Her name was Lily. She always carried a one-legged cloth rabbit.
“I’ll take you to someone who can fix your bunny,” I told her.
Her eyes lit up like stars.
She skipped ahead, fingers clasping mine—
so light, so quick… just like a rabbit.

At the cellar door, she stopped.
“Uncle… it’s so dark. Is there really someone who can heal my bunny?”

I had no answer.

The knife felt heavier this time.
Her rabbit fell to the floor,
its white fur stained brown with blood.
My daughter has one just like it.

Am I doing this for faith… or for her?

I prayed before the Holy Icon.
I washed my hands three times—
but the blood-smell lingers.
Does the Creator think me unclean?”