The Blood That Calls

Prologue

The morning sky had unexpectedly darkened, with the once-bright clouds consumed by a heavy grayness that hinted at rain. It was the sort of weather that caught everyone off guard, as if the heavens themselves were mourning.

Kabir sat quietly at the back of the dimly lit church, surrounded by family and friends who had come to share in his grief. He barely moved, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his shoulders weighed down, and his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the room.

At the front of the church, an elderly priest stood at the podium.

He was a tall, thin man with a deeply lined face and wisps of silver hair neatly combed back. His black clerical robes draped loosely over his frail frame, and one hand rested on the wooden podium where the Bible lay. His voice was gentle yet resonated with surprising strength, filling the quiet church and reaching even the farthest corners.

"Death is not the end of the journey," he said gravely. "It is a transition from this life into the presence of God. We grieve because we have loved. We mourn because someone dear has been taken from us. Yet, even in our sorrow, we must remember that life belongs to the Lord, as does death."

A soft sob broke the silence from someone near the front.

Another mourner bowed their head, covering their mouth as a small whimper escaped through their fingers.

The priest continued.

"We may never comprehend why some lives are taken from us sooner than we expect. We may question why God permits suffering, why good people are called away when they still have so much to offer. But faith urges us to trust even when we cannot see the answers. For though our hearts may be shattered today, the love we shared with the departed remains with us."

His words resonated softly beneath the high ceiling.

But to Kabir, they felt impossibly distant.

He could hear the priest speaking, but the meaning of the words barely penetrated his consciousness. They floated around him like faint sounds from another room. Everyone else seemed to be listening, grieving, praying.

Kabir simply remained there.

Gradually, he lifted his gaze.

His eyes wandered across the church.

Colored light filtered softly through the stained-glass windows, casting muted patterns on the walls. Above the altar hung a large wooden cross, with the figure of Jesus carved upon it, arms outstretched. On either side were religious paintings depicting scenes from the Bible-Mary holding the infant Jesus, the Last Supper, and Jesus among his followers. Small candles flickered beneath several of the images, their flames trembling whenever the cool morning air slipped through the old church.

Kabir stared at them for a long moment.

And then a memory surfaced.

He remembered being a little boy, sitting beside his mother on one of these very pews.

She had always brought him here.

At times, when he struggled to grasp something he had heard during the sermon, she would lean in closer and quietly clarify the passage for him. She never showed impatience with his inquiries. Instead, she would smile and patiently explain the meaning behind the words, often using simple examples from their daily lives to help him understand.

That memory should have brought a smile to his face.

Instead, it shattered something within him.

His gaze slowly dropped.