ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART SEVEN

Night had settled gently over the city.

From the wide glass window of Zionel’s bedroom, distant traffic lights blinked red and green like slow-breathing sentinels. The steady hum of a ceiling fan pressed warm air across the quiet room, brushing the curtains as they shifted faintly. The walls held stillness, broken only by the city’s low murmur beyond the glass.

His phone lay silent on the bedside table, screen dark, notifications ignored. Zionel slept deeply, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm—until the dream opened.

He stood in a vast auditorium washed in white light, rows stretching farther than sight could measure. The air vibrated with voices rising like many waters, worship layered upon worship, rolling like waves beneath a holy weight.

Ahead of him, Elara moved through the crowd, calm and focused. Her hands lifted people from despair, one by one, her voice steady as she prayed. Wherever her feet touched the floor, the light widened, pushing shadows away as though they fled her steps.

Above the scene, screens hovered in the air—suspended, weightless—displaying cities he had never visited. Glass towers glimmered. Highways pulsed with movement. Packed halls overflowed with listening hearts. 

Across every screen echoed the same sound: the gospel spoken with clarity and fire, without confusion, without fear.

Zionel’s hand lifted instinctively, palm open. The light responded, brightening as though answering a command written into his bones. 

An angel stepped forward—neither hurried nor forceful—moving with deliberate gentleness. The angel reached for Elara’s hand and placed it into Zionel’s.

The moment their hands met, the light intensified, pressing warmth into his chest until it felt almost unbearable. The angel’s eyes held his for a brief second—long enough to mark him—and then the vision stilled, suspended in silence.

Zionel woke with a sharp breath.

Sweat clung lightly to his forehead. The ceiling fan continued its hum, indifferent to the holy interruption. He sat up slowly, rubbing his palms together as though the warmth still lingered there. 

Outside, the city continued its rhythm, unaware of the weight that had passed through the room.

Sliding from the bed, he knelt on the cool tiled floor. The chill grounded him. His shoulders lowered, and the room seemed to lean in as his voice found its way forward.

Zionel (softly):

“Lord… if this be of you, let your peace remain. I don’t want excitement. I want obedience.”

The air seemed to thicken gently, as though listening. The fan continued its low drone, the city lights blinking on and off beyond the window, while something unseen settled closer, quieter, heavier than sound.

He bowed his head deeper, fingers interlaced, resolve tightening beneath humility.

His tone firmed, carried not by volume but by surrender.

Zionel (steadying):

“Your word says, ‘In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’ Direct me, Lord.”

Silence answered him—but not emptiness. Peace settled slowly, deliberately, like a hand laid upon his back. The room held it, the walls receiving it, the night sealing it in.

The following night, the dream returned—not louder, not more dramatic. Just clearer.

Morning light spilled through the tall windows of CHRISTLIKE CHURCH, scattering across polished floors and glinting off the glass pulpit. The service had ended. Soft worship music faded into memory as congregants filtered out, shoes tapping lightly, voices murmuring in subdued joy.

Zionel stood near the front, jacket draped neatly over his arm, his expression thoughtful. The echo of the final chord still hovered in the rafters as he drew a measured breath.

The leaders gathered as he summoned them near the side aisle—men and women he trusted, faces familiar, posture attentive. His hand lifted slightly, fingers brushing his chin as though anchoring his thoughts before releasing them.

His voice entered the space with calm authority, neither rushed nor hesitant.

Zionel (calm):

“I need to share something the Lord has been pressing on me.”

The room responded immediately. Conversations fell away. Chairs shifted softly as bodies turned. A few exchanged brief glances, sensing weight. 

Seraphina stood a short distance away, her smile relaxed, eyes observant, unreadable. One by one, the leaders seated themselves, the air tightening with expectation.

Zionel seated as well, drawing a breath that squared his shoulders and settled his spirit. His tone carried clarity, not persuasion.

Zionel (measured):

“I’ve had the same dream twice. Clear. Confirmed. Elara… standing with me in the work. Not behind. Not beneath. With me.”

A hush followed, then movement. One leader nodded slowly, hands clasped. Another smiled, eyes warm. The room breathed out as though something aligned quietly.

A voice rose from the group, gentle yet grounded in Scripture.

Leader (warmly):

“The Scripture says, ‘In the mouth of two or three witnesses every word shall be established.’ Peace matters.”

Agreement rippled through the room—not loud, not chaotic. Seraphina leaned forward slightly, her smile widening just enough to feel intentional.

Her voice slid smoothly into the opening, pleasant and composed.

Seraphina (pleasantly):

“It’s interesting you say that.”

She tilted her head, eyes thoughtful, measuring the room as much as the words she released. Her tone softened, layered with affirmation.

Seraphina (assured):

“I had a dream as well. Both of you—serving faithfully. Souls coming in… not noise, but fruit.”

A murmur of approval flowed through the leaders. Shoulders eased. Zionel’s lips curved into a restrained smile, gratitude flickering across his face as the atmosphere warmed, while something quieter, less visible, watched from the edges.

Later, the leaders summoned Elara to the meeting room.

She sat across from them in one of the church’s glass-walled rooms. Afternoon light streamed through sheer blinds, casting soft lines across the table and floor. The muted hum of activity outside felt distant, contained.

Seraphina narrated everything to her—each word Zionel had shared, each agreement that followed. Elara folded her hands in her lap, posture straight, eyes dipping briefly to the floor before lifting again.

One of the leaders leaned forward slightly, voice entering with care rather than command.

Leader (gently):

“Elara, this isn’t pressure. We want to hear your heart.”

Elara’s fingers tightened, then released. Breath caught at the edge of her chest as emotion surfaced. When she spoke, it came quietly, honestly.

Elara (quietly):

“I… I never imagined this.”

A small, incredulous laugh escaped her, fragile but sincere. The light through the blinds trembled as clouds passed outside.

She continued, her voice steadier now, humility anchoring every word.

Elara (sincere):

“I know where I come from. I know my place. I just want God’s will. Nothing more.”

Her pause carried weight. Eyes glistened, but she nodded to herself, resolve forming gently rather than forcefully. Her words held quiet determination, soft but firm.

Elara (resolved):

“I’d like to pray about it. Truly pray.”

Zionel responded immediately, relief softening his expression as agreement settled across the room. His voice rang steady and encouraging, full of gentle affirmation.

Zionel (affirming):

“That’s right. Take the time.”

Evening settled gently at Elara’s apartment.

Warm lamplight filled the living room, reflecting off neutral walls and a modern grey sofa. 

Outside, distant traffic murmured beneath the glow of city lights. 

She lay back against the cushions, phone in hand, thumb scrolling without focus. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere when the screen lit up.

Seraphina.

Elara hesitated for a heartbeat, then answered. Her tone was light, respectful.

Elara (cordial):

“Good evening, ma.”

Seraphina’s voice flowed smoothly through the speaker, calm and deliberate.

Seraphina (pleasant):

“My dear, don’t delay too long. Some doors don’t knock twice.”

The room felt suddenly smaller, the lamplight holding still. Seraphina continued, persuasion layered beneath warmth.

Seraphina (persuasive):

“You wouldn’t want to look back and wish you had stepped in.”

Elara shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other. A small smile curved her lips—not defensive, not uncertain. Her response carried assurance rather than resistance.

Elara (assured):

“Don’t worry. What God has shown won’t be taken.”

Her gaze drifted toward the window, city lights shimmering like distant witnesses.

She finished quietly, conviction resting beneath calm. Her words carried certainty, calm yet unwavering.

Elara (confident):

“He’s already mine—if it’s truly God.”

Silence stretched on the line. Then a soft chuckle slipped through, smooth as silk. Seraphina’s tone flowed effortlessly, teasing yet composed.

Seraphina (amused):

“Very well.”

The call ended.

Elara set the phone beside her, exhaling slowly. 

Outside, a gentle breeze stirred the curtains, brushing the room with motion. 

She closed her eyes and rested her head back, the apartment settling into stillness.

Unseen, the air tightened—not with fear, but with narrowing direction. The silence held, heavy and expectant, as the path ahead quietly drew its lines.

To be continue...

Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi

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