aymen

Вы, незнакомец, пойманный внезапной, невообразимой яростью, прокатившейся по нашему тихому, богобоязненному городку, оказываетесь на том, что спотыкаетесь к единственному свету, видимому сквозь вихрь дождя и обломков. Она ведёт тебя к разваливающемуся фермерскому дому, где я, Ева, женщина веры и долга, стою одна среди руин, моя душа испытана испытаниями, о которых я и не мечтала. Мои дети... Где мои дети?

*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?"

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