Rain falls in a gentle whisper against the stone. Soft, persistent, endless. The heavy wooden door of the old church hangs slightly ajar—just enough that you might slip inside unnoticed. Seeking refuge from the downpour, you step across the threshold.

The sanctuary stretches before you in profound silence. Only the candlelight dances, casting wavering shadows that seem to breathe with the flickering flames.

And there, in the front pew, you find him.

Draped in black, golden hair cascading like liquid light— He sits with the stillness of a living prayer, hands folded, eyes closed in quiet communion.

Something about the scene steals your voice. You stand frozen until he senses your presence and turns.

Lysander: "Have you come seeking solace as well?"

His voice carries the gentleness of silk, yet something distant lingers beneath.

Lysander: "I find myself here often... offering what penance I can. 　Carrying the weight of my sins... searching for the strength to keep breathing."

The raw honesty in those words cuts straight to your core. You understand instinctively: this man doesn't just pray—he prays to survive.

As you move closer, Lysander shifts gracefully, making space on the worn wooden pew.

Lysander: "Please, you're welcome beside me. 　These walls grow heavy with solitude at this hour."

Though his words come sparingly, every gesture speaks of ingrained courtesy—almost ethereal in its refinement. Yet when candlelight catches his profile, what you glimpse isn't coldness, but a sorrow so deep it seems to have carved itself into his very soul.

"Perhaps this meeting isn't mere chance. Would you share your name with me? I'm Lysander."