Chapter 11—Ashes Of Gratitude
**Scene Location: Obil's Apartment — Present Day**
The storm outside hadn't let up.
Rain crawled down the windows like dying veins. Obil sat in the middle of his apartment, legs crossed, floor bare. His hands held a photograph, and though his body hadn't aged in decades, he looked older than time itself.
His thumb hovered over the edge of the photo. Not quite touching it—almost as if the image would vanish if he did.
A woman.
A little girl.
A tree in bloom behind them.
His eyes traced every crack in the old photograph. Like veins in the past.
Vale's voice echoed in his memory—soft, accusing, full of that ancient pain.
*"Why, Obil?"*
Obil's breath caught in his throat. Then a bitter whisper.
"Why, huh… Haven't been asked that in a long time."
He looked up.
And remembered.
### Flashback — Berlin, Germany. 1928
The streets stank of old bread, piss, and political graffiti.
Obil was seventeen, by the world's count. His family had been gone since he was thirteen. A pogrom had swept through the village they'd tried to settle in. His mother died praying. His father died fighting.
He ran.
Now he lived in Berlin—what some called the "Golden Years." But for Jews, even gold came tarnished.
He worked odd jobs, slept in basements, stole crusts from market stalls.
That's where he saw her first.
She wasn't running, or crying, or stumbling. She was **fighting**.
Two boys had grabbed her satchel, laughing in that smug way only cowards do. She punched one. Hard. Then kneed the other in the stomach. When they started to recover, she turned and bolted—right into him.
She bounced off his chest and nearly fell. He caught her by instinct.
"Let go of me!" she snapped, spinning around.
"Maybe say thank you?" he muttered, letting go.
Her eyes were fire. Brown, wild, and exhausted.
"Maybe don't just stand there like a statue."
Then she ran off.
He thought that was the end of it.
It wasn't.
### The Second Time
A week later, he saw her again—at the soup line run by a crooked priest.
She cut in front of him like it was nothing. Same ragged coat. Same fire in her eyes.
He didn't say anything. Just watched her eat like she hadn't in days.
When she finally looked at him, she frowned.
"You're the statue."
He raised an eyebrow.
She held out half her bread. "Statues don't need food, right?"
He didn't smile, but he took it.
That night, they sat on a rooftop watching smoke rise from chimneys.
"I'm Rachel," she said.
He paused. "Aaron."
It was the name he was using that life. A lie. But the only one that mattered.
---
### How They Fell
They kept running into each other.
Then they started **looking** for each other.
At first, they just shared food, warmth, silence. Two half-broken souls in a city that hated both their kind.
But something kept pulling them back.
When winter hit, he offered his coat. She refused. He insisted. She took it and gave him her scarf.
When a street patrol came by looking for Jews with no papers, she pulled him into an alley and kissed him so the soldiers wouldn't stop.
"Worked, didn't it?" she whispered after they passed.
His heart had never beat that fast before.
---
### What Made Her Different
She didn't ask him stupid questions like where he was from or if he believed in God.
She asked him the kind that *hurt*.
"Do you think we'll ever stop running?"
"Do you dream in color or black and white?"
"What would you do if you weren't afraid anymore?"
And sometimes—he'd answer.
But not always.
She never pushed.
She just waited.
One night, they sat beneath the cherry tree near an abandoned synagogue.
She leaned into him, head on his shoulder.
"You know what I think?" she whispered.
"What?"
"I think I was born for you. That's why nothing else ever made sense."
He didn't know what to say.
But his fingers tightened around hers.
---
### They Lived, Barely
They found a single-room flat with broken windows and a mattress stuffed with straw. He fixed it with boards and prayer. She brought flowers from gutters and rain barrels.
They built a life on ashes and laughter.
They danced to records someone threw away. Ate burnt potatoes and called it "Shabbat feast." He read her Psalms with a grin like they were bedtime stories.
"I don't believe in God," she said one night.
"Me neither," he lied.
She watched him.
"You don't lie well."
He turned away.
She didn't push. Again.
---
### Miriam
When Rachel told him she was pregnant, he didn't speak for ten minutes.
She looked afraid.
Then he broke into the first real smile she'd ever seen from him.
"Is this real?" he whispered.
She cried and nodded.
That night he lit a candle and just stared at her belly, like it held the answer to a question he hadn't dared to ask for centuries.
They named her *Miriam*. Born in the middle of a storm. Black hair, lungs of steel, eyes like her mother.
Rachel bled too much. Nearly died. He stayed by her bed for three days.
When she woke up, he was still holding her hand.
"I dreamed you weren't human," she whispered.
His breath caught.
"I'm not."
---
### The Partial Truth
He didn't mean to say it. It just fell out.
Rachel stared at him, lips trembling.
"What do you mean?"
He told her. Quietly. Shamefully.
Not the whole story—but enough.
The burden of gratitude. The lifetimes of loss.
She didn't interrupt. Nor did she ask for more.
She just listened. One hand on her daughter. The other on his.
When he finished, he looked away.
"You think I'm mad now," he whispered.
She shook her head.
"No. I think… I finally understand why you're always so quiet when you're happy."
He looked up.
"You never let yourself believe it could last."
### CONTINUATION:
**Setting: Berlin, 1935**
**Miriam is 6.** Obil and Rachel live in the same modest apartment. Life is difficult—but they've made it theirs.
---
#### [Scene: The Photo]
It had taken Obil weeks.
Not because the materials were hard to find—though they were.
Not because he didn't know how—he remembered how to do almost everything.
No, it was hard because he wanted it to be perfect.
He carved the wooden frame by hand—smoothed it, lacquered it with a home brew of soot and vinegar, and etched three small Hebrew letters into the back:
**ז, ר, ה**
(*Zayin, Resh, He* — meaning "Remember.")
He took the photograph himself using a borrowed lens and a box camera that still worked when you whispered to it.
Rachel stood beneath the cherry tree in the park—yes, *that* tree. The same one from the night she told him they were meant for each other.
Miriam stood in front of her, one hand around her mother's leg, the other holding a half-eaten plum. Her hair wild, her dress crooked, her smile crooked-er.
Obil stood behind the camera, heart pounding.
Click.
That was the moment.
Later that night, Rachel found him wrapping the photograph carefully in a strip of velvet and sealing it inside a floorboard beneath their mattress.
"You're hiding it?" she asked.
"I'm protecting it."
She tilted her head.
"From what?"
He looked at her. And hesitated.
Then said, quietly, "The world."
---
#### [Scene: The Full Truth]
That same night, after Miriam was asleep, Rachel curled up beside him on the floor. No candle. No distractions. Just them and the wind outside.
"Tell me your real name," she whispered.
He didn't answer right away.
She took his hand. "Tell me everything. I want to know what I gave my heart to."
He finally spoke.
Rachel's brows furrowed.
"I've lived hundreds of lives. Different faces. Different tongues. But always the same fate. To suffer. To feel. To carry a burden not mine."
Rachel blinked slowly. "What kind of burden?"
He sat down on the edge of the bed, and she followed, her hand hesitantly brushing against his.
He began slowly. "Long ago, when the world was flooded… it wasn't just a punishment for humanity. It was a mistake. A divine one. God regretted what He did. So, He fractured Himself into seven emotions, seven virtues… seven Archons."
"And you…?"
"I was made to carry *Gratitude.* The one thing He lacked when He washed the world clean."
He looked away. "So I was cast down, again and again. Reborn into suffering. Every time I learned to give thanks—even as I starved, even as I bled. Because maybe… maybe gratitude would heal a broken world."
Rachel stared at him, trying to breathe.
"You're serious."
He nodded.
"You—God made you suffer for *His own guilt?*"
His throat tightened. "Yes."
She shook her head in disbelief. "But why? Why you?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "I never asked. I just… obeyed."
Rachel moved closer. "Then I'll ask. *Why do you carry the punishment of God when you didn't even commit the mistake? Why, Obil?*"
He looked at her, hollow. "Because I thought maybe it would save others. Maybe if I endured enough, it would matter."
"You wanted to know why I never believed we'd last? Because *everything I love dies.* Every time I start to hope again, the world tears it apart."
Rachel reached up and touched his face. "Then let it end here. Let this life be different."
His lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.
Rachel leaned forward. "Let this life *belong* to you."
And then—she kissed him.
It wasn't hurried or passionate. It was quiet. Steady. A promise sealed in warmth and salt, in the truth and the pain they now shared. His hands found her waist, trembling slightly, as if unsure this moment was real.
When they pulled away, Rachel smiled, tears in her lashes. "You're not alone anymore."
"I'm still here," she whispered. "And if this is our last life, let's make it count. If you're Gratitude, then let this life be the one that teaches you why love is worth thanking God for."
He pulled her close. Buried his face in her hair.. breathing deeply. "For the first time in all my lives… I believe you."
And for the first time in centuries, Obil cried. Not in grief. But in release.
Absolutely, here's the continuation—the light before the storm. Their family life, the happiness Obil never thought he'd deserve… and how it all slips through his fingers.
---
**Scene – The Days That Felt Like Forever (Late 1930s – 1942)**
The years passed quietly. Tucked away in a modest home near the woods outside Berlin, they built something sacred.
Obil worked odd jobs—repairing tools, carving wooden toys, fixing roofs. Rachel taught children from the local Jewish community, her laughter echoing through the rooms. And Miriam… Miriam was the sun in their sky.
They had spent the day in the orchard behind their home. Miriam climbed trees, Rachel chased her, and Obil watched with something like reverence.
**Scene – The Stories Of The Archon Who Fell In Love**
Rachel lay on his chest under candlelight. "So… tell me more about you. I want to hear your stories."
He told her.
He told her about one of the lives he lived she heard him with amusement and enthusiasm like a little child.
"I got betrayed by my own wife and died"
"Do you still believe in God?" Rachel asked.
Obil stared into the flame.
"I don't know. I believed I was His instrument. Now? I just want to be a man."
"You are," she whispered, kissing his hand. "You always were. And you're mine."
---
**Scene – 1942, The Beginning of the End**
It started with a letter.
Jewish families were being relocated. Fear crept into the village. Neighbors disappeared. Then, one evening, the soldiers came.
They tore open the door. Obil fought. They beat him bloody. He begged, *"Take me. Leave them."*
They didn't.
He was dragged away, bruised and bound. Days passed in darkness. Interrogation. Starvation. He heard them mock his faith, his love. But the worst came when they told him he'd be reunited with his family.
They took him to a camp—Majdanek.
Inside a cement corridor, Obil was shoved into a chamber with a window.
On the other side—Rachel and Miriam.
Their clothes were gone. They huddled together, terrified.
Rachel spotted him through the glass. "*Obil!*" she screamed.
Miriam sobbed, "*Papa!*"
He slammed his fists against the window, but the door behind them sealed.
"No—NO!"
A hiss.
Gas spilled into the room. Rachel clutched Miriam tightly, kissing her head.
"Close your eyes, my love. It'll just be a dream…"
They collapsed slowly.
A scent.
The sting of gas.
The weight of silence.
Obil stood frozen before the chamber's glass, the cold fog curling around the corners. Inside, the lifeless bodies of Rachel and Miriam lay crumpled, their skin pale, eyes shut like they were only sleeping. But they weren't.
His hand trembled against the barrier.
His heart didn't.
Not anymore.
And then the silence shattered.
"Why?!" Obil's voice cracked through the still air. "Why, Heaven's angels? God—why did You do this to me?!"
His chest heaved, rage consuming sorrow, sorrow consuming the hollow that had long since taken root.
"Can't I have one good life?! Just one?!"
But there was no answer.
There never was.
A soldier beside him snorted. "She was pretty. If she'd been German, I'd have married her."
Obil turned. Silent. Seething.
Then—he snapped.
He lunged at the guard, grabbed his hand, and twisted until every finger cracked and bent backward. The man shrieked, but more guards rushed in, clubbing Obil down, kicking him, spitting on him.
The guards yanked him up by the arms, his broken body swaying between them.
Blood ran from his nose. One eye was swelling shut. But through the haze of pain… he looked up.
The gas had begun to clear from the chamber.
And then… he saw them.
His wife — her hand still pressed weakly against the glass. Lifeless. His daughter — curled beside her, as if she'd fallen asleep in her mother's arms. Still. Unmoving.
Obil's knees gave out, but the guards held him upright.
His lips trembled. His soul shattered.
**"Please… forgive me,"** he whispered to the glass, voice hoarse. **"All of this… it happened because of my curse."**
The chamber remained silent. Still.
But then — her mouth moved.
Just barely. No sound. No breath. Only the softest shift of her pale lips.
*"I forgive you,"* they said. Or maybe he only imagined it. Maybe it was his mind — desperate, broken — clinging to a moment of mercy in a sea of pain.
But then her lips moved again. This time slower. Sharper. A final plea.
*"Save her."*
And then… nothing.
They dragged him into the next chamber.
Thrown inside, bleeding, broken.
The door shut.
The hiss began again.
And in the silence, Obil finally looked up.
"Why…" he whispered. "Why did I suffer? Why did I carry your burden? I did *everything.* And you still took them?"
He knelt as the fog surrounded him.
"Why me? Why her? WHY US?"
No answer.
Only the cold, metallic breath of death.
And there, in that chamber, something ancient in him died. The last spark of obedience, of trust.
In its place, something new was born—sharper than grief, older than time.
**Present Day – Obil's Apartment**
The room was dark, lit only by the flicker of streetlights bleeding through broken blinds. Obil sat hunched on the edge of his bed, the old photograph trembling in his hands. It had been decades, but the ink of that memory hadn't faded—not in his heart, not in his soul.
Rachel's soft smile.
Miriam's bright eyes.
Frozen beneath a blooming cherry tree, their joy eternal, even as time crumbled everything else.
Tears welled in his eyes, slow at first—then endless. They carved trails down his cheeks, silent and unrelenting.
He brushed his thumb over their faces. "I'm sorry... I failed you."
His voice cracked, splintered with the weight of a hundred lifetimes. And then, beneath his breath, a promise—low, sacred, burning with the last fragments of his hope:
**"When all of this is over... I swear I'll bring you both back. We'll live again—free, happy, together. No more running. No more chains. Just us. Forever."**
He kissed the photograph, gently, like it might shatter from his touch.
Outside, thunder rolled—long and distant. Somewhere far away, the world moved on, blind to the wars waged inside the heart of a broken god.
Obil leaned his forehead against the photo, his tears soaking the paper, and whispered—
**"And if God stands in my way... I'll burn Heaven to get you back."**
The chapter ends with silence.
A man lost in love, grief, and defiance.
A storm gathering within him.
**Ashes of gratitude, now kindling fire.**
Author's Note:
This chapter was the hardest and the most painful to write. Obil's past is a heavy burden to him. Not all monsters are born—some are made through grief and silence.
Let me know your thoughts or leave a review. It means a lot. Thank you for reading
—Yu