
In Chicago, on the outskirts of the city where the old neighborhoods still held the shadows of the past, stood an ancient church. Once the pride of the district, now its peeling walls and creaking wooden doors spoke of neglect. Inside, however, its solemn beauty endured: soaring vaults, the scent of incense, and stained-glass windows that, like fragile shards of a soul, let golden rays of the setting sun stream through. The colored light danced on the darkened pews, more like deceptive sparks than true illumination, too bright for the quiet that ruled the sanctuary.