A window… Not a saint...
Though to call it window... feels… inadequate…
Stained glass… colored light… saints frozen… the sort of beauty designed to comfort simple minds...
But light is a curious thing…
It does not only illuminate…
It reveals…
And revelation... is rarely pleasant…
The colors shift as the moon rises… soft gold becoming deep crimson… halos bending into something far less... divine... Faces once serene now twisted by another nature entirely...
Saints become profane…
Angels or demons... Or… something else altogether...
Their eyes follow with unnatural patience... Their mouths seem moments away from speaking... Or feeding...
Curious what darkness can preserve inside sacred things...
The light passes through them regardless... casting fragments across the floor like broken scripture...
Nothing remains hidden here...
Not guilt...
Not hunger...
Not memory...
This place was concealed for generations... hidden behind old walls, locked doors, whispered names never spoken above a careful breath...
A secret handed from one bloodline to another... not out of pride...
But containment...
Because some doors are not built to protect what lies outside...
But to restrain what waits within...
And still...
The window watches...
Patiently...
As if waiting for someone worthy enough...
...or desperate...
to finally understand what it has been trying to say all along...
They awaiting... They watching...
