Angela

Lucien walked forward, the bell's ceaseless toll echoing around him.

The living room greeted him in modest splendor—a quiet sanctum adorned with vases of lavender, placed in precise positions like sentinels guarding a sacred space. Their floral perfume mingled with the warm gold of sunlight that spilled through the windows, washing the room in honeyed light.

He squinted. His eyes, accustomed to fractured rainbows from the stained glass, flinched at the clarity. He rubbed them gently, blinking the brightness away.

Paintings lined the walls—dozens of them. Some were beautifully preserved, lovingly framed and dustless. Others were moth-eaten, their edges curling, the canvas cracked with time. A few showed his mother in regal attire, aglow with youthful grace. Others captured moments of him—laughing, running, sitting at a table he couldn't remember. His hair was white like the surface of the moon. The paintings formed a silent gallery of memories he had no memory of.

The contrast unsettled him, as though time itself had chosen which memories to cherish… and which to forget.

The furniture was sparse but dignified—a round table set at the heart of the room, its wood dark and lovingly polished. On top stood various plates covered with a white cloth. Chairs with carved legs stood in neat arrangement, their wood matching the table's deep grain. The faint scent of thyme and roasted garlic lingered in the air.

Lucien stepped forward toward the table—toward the two women who sat waiting.

Finally!" Seraphine exclaimed. "Sit down, please.

She stood up, reaching to lift the cloths off the plates.

Wow...

The word escaped Lucien's mouth again. The golden halo from the window seemed to accentuate her already ethereal beauty.

Lucien! A forceful shove to his right shoulder pulled him from his reverie.

Again? You'll go blind looking at her that hard," said the woman who had offered to dress him earlier, playfully nudging him.

A light blush crept over Lucien's cheeks as he lowered his head.

The woman, a satisfied grin on her face, continued her ceaseless taunts until Seraphine cut in.

Angela.Lucien raised his head to look at his mother. "Let your nephew catch a break," Seraphine added.

Lucien's eyes narrowed in understanding. So they were sisters... I knew they had to be related.

The gentle metallic ringing of the bells still hung vividly in the air.

Angela smiled, closing her eyes while rubbing the back of her head, her dark hair catching the sunlight.

I'm just teasing him. I mean, I haven't seen him for five months,Angela said.

Anyway, he just woke up. Let him catch a break.

Alright, alright," Angela said with resignation, sitting back into her chair with a pout on her face.

Lucien, after steadying his heart, cast his gaze to the table—and was caught in awe.

Various foods adorned the table, each with a paper write-up placed beside the plates.

There was freshly baked bread—though not oven-hot, it still emanated a sweet, warm smell. A small side serving of honey butter sat on the rim of the plate.

Next to the bread were buttered rolls with golden-brown crusts, beside a jar of jam made with forest berries. He knew most of this because the paper write-ups beside each plate bore detailed descriptions.

Lucien smiled a little. What a thoughtful woman, he thought inwardly.

He cast his gaze to the far right of the table and saw a creamy potato and leek soup beside a beef and vegetable broth, both releasing gentle spirals of steam.

At the center of the table, a meat was roasted with garlic and herbs, standing proudly like the crown jewel of a royal banquet.

To his far left, apart from the jug of mulled cider, he saw his aunty Angela already stuffing her face with warm apple pie. The flaky crust crackled with every bite, cinnamon and filling dripping onto the table.

A joyful chuckle came from the woman who sat at the other end of the round table, opposite him.

Gosh, sweet things are still your weakness, Angela.

N... no. T-that's a wron—shut up, Angela mumbled, the muffled sounds barely audible through her stuffed mouth.

Lucien chuckled quietly before blinking in curiosity. He turned to Seraphine.

Wait—when did you even get the time to prepare all this?

Both women paused mid-motion and turned to him with the same deadpan expression.

We cooked it at Angela's place, dummy,

they said in unison.

Lucien blinked. Then laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Right... fair.

He smiled again before looking at his mother. He opened his mouth, but the bell rang once more.

Yes, Mom... what is that ringing?

It is the call-up by all people of the followers of the Church of the All Father, Seraphine said, starting to cut into the meat.

It's a Sunday.

Lucien repeated the word Sunday a few times in his head.

Seraphine continued, "A year is split into twelve months. Every year has 365 or 366 days. A week is split into seven days. The splitting of months is due to astronomical observations, while the division of days comes from religion.

Each school of thought or church believes the days relate to their religion. For example...

She raised her head, noticing Lucien's full attention. She smiled, then resumed cutting the meat.

The Church of the All Father believes that Monday is when the All Father created himself. Tuesday, he created the groundwork of the universe. Wednesday, he started creating the various laws and rules that govern that groundwork. Thursday, he created his angels to serve as divine servants. Friday, he created stars and planetary bodies. Saturday, he rested. And Sunday—he let there be light into the universe, breathing life into it and creating all living things.

So for every day, they have a different event at the church for faithful believers. Sunday is when you see the most people, as everyone is free.

Lucien gazed forward in deep thought.

So... one, there are different religions. Two, they follow the same pattern for their days, but the origin stories differ. And...

Yeah,he said in sudden realization. "So which church is the bishop who diagnosed me from?

Seraphine's face scrunched up in thought.

Bishop David, from the Church of the All Father," she said between spoonfuls. "With his so-called anointing oil and procession for divine intervention," she added, rolling her eyes.

Angela narrowed her eyes in disgust.

And worst of all, he mandates that all church members buy it every thursday when renewing their baptisms to cleanse their souls. How can that tiny bottle be five lira?

Lira? Lucien echoed in confusion.

Seraphine looked downcast. It's the currency system in this kingdom.

Lucien looked upward and sighed deeply. I really have a lot to relearn, he said—subtly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

He could see Seraphine was smiling her usual smile, but behind it, pain lingered. Angela avoided eye contact… but her hand reached out anyway.

The two women reached across the table and held his hands.

Don't worry," they said in near-unison. Everything will be fine. We'll be here for you.

A smile blossomed on Lucien's face.

He finally took a bite of his food. His eyes dilated in ecstasy.

That detail did not escape Seraphine, who smiled in relief.

Lucien, his mouth full, muttered, "Mom... please, who is Ronald?"

Seraphine burst into a melodious laugh. Just an arrogant young lad you had a fight with.

Had a fight with?

Yeah," she said, facing him. "I don't approve of what you did, son. You knew his Indulgence pathway was Pride.

Pride? Lucien repeated, his eyes bearing no familiarity with the term.

The two women looked at each other and groaned before beginning to give him some basic knowledge.