Adam sat on the hard, worn bench, his gaze unfocused, giving little away. He’d come here, not for solace, but because he needed something, and for now, that something was the Father’s help. In this world, he was known as Badr, a man in his twenties who had once been close to the Father and his family. But in his own mind, he was still Adam, and beneath the hollow mask he wore, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

When the Father finally approached him, Adam’s face remained impassive, but he noticed the softening in the man’s eyes—a look of shared pain and quiet determination. The Father’s presence was comforting, but not because he sought comfort. He needed something more practical. I’ll find my way back somehow, Adam thought, a flicker of resolve stirring beneath his practiced expression.

“It’s you, isn’t it, Badr?” the Father asked gently, his voice warm, the same caring tone he’d used since Adam had been a child.

“Yes, Father,” Adam replied, echoing the name the world had given him. He could sense the Father’s concern, the lingering ache of someone who’d been trying, and failing, to ease the burdens around him. Adam had come to the church for this very reason, knowing the Father would welcome him because he’d watched him grow, had even looked after him as though he were family.

“I heard you wanted to speak with me.” The Father’s tone was steady, but Adam could hear the trace of concern underneath, a worry that had become as much a part of him as his faith. “What brings you here, son?”

The question was simple, yet Adam felt the weight of it settle around him. He knew he couldn’t tell the whole truth—not yet. Instead, he offered a version of the truth that he knew would resonate with the Father, something that would explain his presence here and his sudden need to learn.

“I want to come with you to the city,” he said, his voice quiet yet steady. “To help. To learn.”

The Father looked at him, his brow creasing slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling downward in a pensive frown. “Badr, you know I can’t bring you along. You’re not a priest.”

Adam held his gaze, his expression carefully arranged to convey a mix of uncertainty and quiet resolve. “Then… teach me, Father. Please. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The Father’s eyes softened, and Adam could see the man’s compassion and the unspoken pain that weighed on him. He knew the Father felt guilt for many things, that he saw himself as somehow responsible for what had happened to his son, Antara—a pain Adam knew the Father kept buried, though it showed in the lines etched deep into his face. Perhaps, in seeing Adam standing here, asking for guidance, he saw an opportunity to make amends for a wound he couldn’t name. Maybe he thinks helping me will somehow save his son, too, Adam thought, his own purpose clear even if he kept it hidden.

“Why do you want to learn, son?” the Father asked, his voice soft, almost pleading. It was a question Adam had anticipated, and he knew the answer he needed to give.

He looked down, as though searching for the words, his voice taking on a note of quiet honesty. “I’m tired, Father. And… I know my mother wanted more for me. She always wanted me to study, but we couldn’t afford it.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, knowing the Father would understand what that meant. The Father had known his mother well, knew the way she had always dreamed of a better life for him, even if she hadn’t been able to provide it.

As expected, the Father’s expression softened further, a glint of sorrow in his eyes. “She did,” the Father murmured, almost to himself. “She wanted that very much for you.”

Adam let the silence linger, sensing the Father’s empathy. He knew the man cared, that his own grief had deepened his compassion for others. Perhaps he was hoping that helping Adam, helping “Badr,” might somehow ease the pain that haunted him. In a way, Adam was counting on it.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The Father’s gaze lingered on him, his thoughts distant, heavy with an unspoken burden. “Alright,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur. “You may come with us.”

The words settled over Adam, a quiet affirmation that he’d made the right move. For now, he would learn what he could—knowledge that might, one day, guide him back to his own life. He needed information, connections, and if playing the part of a devoted student to the Father would help him achieve that, he would do it.

The Father placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “For now, let’s begin with a small prayer. Then, we’ll go to the city to carry out our work.”

Adam nodded, bowing his head as the Father led him through a prayer. He murmured the words, letting them flow over him without resistance. Despite the emptiness he felt, there was a sense of calm here, a stillness he hadn’t anticipated. He didn’t know how long he’d stay, or how close he’d allow himself to get, but he would follow this path. For now, he had a foothold, a place to begin.

As Adam bowed his head in prayer, he caught glimpses of memories—fragments that felt like his own, yet belonged to Badr’s life. The Father’s hand on his shoulder stirred something within him, bringing back faint echoes of a time when things had felt simpler, even safe. But then came the shadow that fell over the Father’s family, a wound that had left a scar on them all: Antara’s story.

In his mind’s eye, Adam could see Antara as he once was, a man with a gentle spirit, devoted to his work as a teacher. He had been well-liked, especially among his students, known for the easy laugh that made people around him feel at ease. But that had all changed when the Father’s sermons had grown louder, more impassioned, and the wrong ears began to listen.

The regime had never looked kindly on those who questioned their authority, even indirectly. And when the Father had started speaking out during his sermons, describing the hunger, the hardship suffered by the people, Adam remembered the tension growing around the church. Whispers about the Father’s words spread quickly—people were drawn to his honesty, his willingness to speak about the suffering most people kept to themselves. For those who struggled, he was a voice of hope. But for those in power, he was a problem.

Then came that one morning, the rumors of a pregnant woman spotted outside the police station, screaming in a ragged voice, demanding justice for her husband’s death. She had claimed that he’d been taken by the authorities and killed. Raphael hadn’t been there, but he remembered the stories—the way people said the authorities had dragged her away, how no one had seen her since, or when they massacred farmers because they were protesting about the lack of food for themselves and their families, let alone their kettle.

It wasn’t long after that when they came for Antara.

Adam remembered the shock, the way Antara’s arrest felt like a punch to the gut. They hadn’t even given him a reason, hadn’t let him speak in his defense. They’d simply taken him, and all because he was the Father’s son—a connection they exploited to pressure the Father into silence. Antara hadn’t committed any crime, hadn’t done anything but teach his students and go about his life. But in the eyes of those in power, he’d become a convenient target, a tool to keep his father in line.

Months passed, and though the Father pleaded and waited, Antara remained locked away, isolated from his family and friends. Adam could remember hearing bits and pieces of the ordeal—the unanswered questions, the weeks stretching into months without a word from the authorities. And all the while, the Father’s sermons grew quieter, less frequent, the weight of guilt pressing heavily on him.

When they finally released Antara, he’d returned a different man. The gentle, easygoing teacher was gone, replaced by someone hollowed out, a man who seemed to drift through life with a quiet, haunting sadness. His job at the school was lost; they refused to take him back without documentation “justifying” his absence. But of course, no such document was ever provided, and Antara’s reputation had been irreparably damaged.

Now, Antara lived in quiet isolation, a shadow of the man he had once been. And the Father carried the weight of it all, blaming himself for the punishment his son had endured. Adam understood, in a way. The Father’s heart still ached with guilt, and maybe—just maybe—he thought that by helping Adam, he could somehow make amends, could somehow ease the burden he could no longer lift for his son.

Adam blinked, the edges of the memory fading as he returned to the present. He could feel the Father’s hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle, as they finished their prayer. There was a heaviness in the air between them, a shared understanding that needed no words.