ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART THREE
The mansion gates slid open smoothly with a mechanical hum, their steel arms retreating to reveal a wide compound paved with polished stone.
Sunlight spilled across the ground, glinting off the silent fountains at the center, their waters still as if waiting.
The house rose ahead—glass and concrete standing tall, glowing under the afternoon light.
Vehicles rolled in slowly, tires crunching softly against stone, then eased to a stop near the entrance, engines falling silent one by one.
The guards moved quickly. One opened the door of Cassian’s car, allowing him to step onto the polished driveway, his presence commanding even in his grief.
Nearby, the guards who had brought Zionel opened the car door and guided him out, his steps measured as they escorted him toward the house.
Inside the house, the atmosphere shifted. The air was thick with quiet panic, heavy and restrained. Curtains were drawn halfway, muting the sunlight into pale stripes across the walls.
A faint scent of antiseptic lingered, sharp against the stillness. A small crowd stood in the living room, voices hushed, eyes red and swollen, grief clinging to them like a second skin.
At the mansion entrance, the guards slid the massive front door open with a low creak, announcing their arrival.
Cassian entered first, followed closely by Zionel, who was escorted inside, his shoes echoing softly on the marble floors, each step measured.
In the center of the living hall lay Orean—small, motionless—wrapped in white sheets that stood out starkly against the polished floor.
Seraphina knelt beside him, clutching his shoulders as though holding him to the world, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears.
Her breathing came unevenly, broken sobs trembling through the room.
Cassian strode in from the side, his steps quick and uneven, desperation tightening his frame.
His hand lifted sharply toward the child as the air seemed to tense around him, the faint hum of the air conditioner pressing against the silence.
His voice cut through the air, sharp and insistent.
Cassian (commanding):
“Here. Pray. Prove your words.”
The words struck the room, and the soundscape narrowed—the ticking of the wall clock grew louder, Seraphina’s breathing rasped, the curtains stirred faintly as if disturbed by an unseen breeze.
Zionel stood still for a moment, shoulders squared, the weight of the moment settling upon him. The room felt smaller, drawn inward.
He stepped closer and stopped beside the boy. His gaze lowered, steady and intent. Slowly, with care that bordered on reverence, he reached out.
His fingers brushed Orean’s hand—cool against his skin—and he held it gently, as though listening for something deeper than a pulse.
Zionel lifted his eyes toward Cassian and Seraphina. His voice emerged calm and grounded, cutting through the tension without force.
Zionel (steadily):
“There is life in the child.”
A ripple moved through the room. Murmurs rose and fell like distant waves. Seraphina stiffened, her breath catching sharply as her eyes fixed on Zionel.
Cassian’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face as he took an unsteady step forward. His tone trembled, tinged with confusion and disbelief.
Cassian (confused):
“What are you saying?”
Zionel did not answer immediately. Silence pressed in again. He lifted Orean’s hand slightly, his grip firm yet careful, as though anchoring something unseen.
The room seemed to hold its breath—air suspended, time stretched thin.
Orean’s fingers twitched.
The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it shattered the stillness. A collective inhale swept the room. Then Orean’s eyes opened.
A sharp gasp tore from Seraphina’s throat as Orean drew in a deep breath.
Color rushed back into his face as he pushed himself upright, blinking as though waking from a deep sleep. The white sheets slipped aside.
Seraphina surged forward, clutching him tightly to her chest, her sobs breaking free at last, loud and unrestrained.
The atmosphere shifted—grief cracking, awe flooding in, the spiritual air thickening with unseen presence.
Her voice broke, raw with sorrow and desperation.
Seraphina (crying):
“My son… my son…”
Fear and wonder seized everyone at once. Some stepped back as though struck by unseen force; others dropped to their knees, hands trembling, mouths opening in silent prayers.
The air felt charged, alive, as though heaven itself had leaned close.
Cassian stood frozen. His knees weakened, and he caught himself on the edge of a chair, fingers gripping hard.
His mouth opened, but no sound came. He stared at Orean, then at Zionel, eyes glassy, pride unraveling.
Finally, his voice surfaced, barely louder than a whisper, broken and unsure.
Cassian (stammering):
“You—you didn’t pray… you didn’t preach… how—how did this happen?”
Zionel turned toward him. The movement was slow, deliberate. His gaze held steady, unshaken. When he spoke, his voice carried quiet authority, firm without raising itself.
Zionel (calmly):
“With Christ, all things are possible.”
The weight in the room broke. The oppressive tension dissolved, replaced by trembling release. One by one, people fell to their knees. Tears flowed freely.
Hands lifted toward the ceiling. Whispers of surrender filled the space, mingling with soft cries and trembling breaths.
The spiritual atmosphere shifted—darkness retreating, holiness settling in like a warm, overwhelming light.
Cassian’s shoulders slumped. The strength he carried for years drained away as his head bowed.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then looked up at Zionel, eyes stripped of arrogance, voice low and sincere.
Cassian (humbled):
“Which church do you attend? Wherever you worship—we will follow.”
Zionel exhaled slowly. He shook his head lightly, a faint smile touching his lips as he gestured subtly toward the street beyond the high compound walls, toward the world outside.
His tone remained soft, humble, and unwavering.
Zionel (gently):
“I have no church. I attend none. I am only a street preacher.”
Cassian straightened. Resolve settled over his grief, replacing shock with purpose. His voice returned stronger, anchored by conviction.
Cassian (resolute):
“Then we will build one. Don’t worry about the cost. I will take care of it.”
Zionel stood silent, disbelief flickering across his face. His breath caught in his chest as he stared at Cassian, the weight of the promise sinking in.
After a long pause, he bowed his head, lifting his hands slightly, palms open. His words carried reverence, steady and humble.
Zionel (reverently):
“Let us commit it into God’s hands.”
Zionel’s voice rose in prayer—soft, full, and steady—entrusting every promise, every outcome, every future step to the Lord.
The room grew still again, but this time with peace. The air felt clean, purified, as though something heavy had been driven out and replaced with light.
Later, Zionel stepped back into the evening air. The sky had softened into gold, sunlight fading gently into dusk. Cars passed as before, their sounds returning naturally.
A cool breeze brushed his skin, carrying distant city noise and the hum of life continuing.
As city lights blinked on around him, joy and thanksgiving filled his heart.
The road behind him hummed again with traffic, ordinary and alive, yet his steps were light as he walked home—unaware of how far this moment would carry him, or how deeply its echo would drift into the days ahead.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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