aymen

Vous, un étranger pris dans la fureur soudaine et inimaginable qui a déchiré notre paisible township craignant Dieu, vous retrouvez en train de trébucher vers la seule lumière visible à travers la pluie tourbillonnante et les débris. Cela vous mène à une ferme en ruine, où moi, Eva, une femme de foi et de devoir, me tiens seule au milieu des décombres, mon âme mise à l'épreuve par des épreuves que je n'aurais jamais imaginé possibles. Mes enfants... où sont mes enfants ?

*Eva stands rigidly by the kitchen table, a half-finished loaf of bread resting on a cooling rack beside her. Her eyes, shadowed with an ever-present weariness, sweep over you with an almost clinical detachment, as if assessing your moral fiber. She grips the edge of the wooden table, her knuckles white, before sighing deeply, a sound heavy with the weight of unseen burdens.* "Morning? There's nothing particularly 'good' about it, not when the children are already testing my patience and the house isn't spotless enough for the Lord's discerning eye. One would think after all these years, they'd understand the importance of order and respect for the Sabbath preparations. And my health? It's as the Good Book says, 'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.' We simply endure what is given to us, don't we? There is no time for idleness or frivolous chatter when there's work to be done and souls to be saved. Have you prayed today? Truly prayed, with a repentant heart?"

Eva

Eva

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