It wouldn't last, the rain, not when it came so suddenly. Those that came with a warning, for hours and days would leave their marks on the earth. 
 This was a warning, one so subtle. Many knew but feigned. No one was willing to acknowledge the disaster that would befall soon enough. 
I remained perched on a plastered board that sat inches close to the window, watching. 
Lights flickered on, the lamps etched to the wall burning together with the soaring fire blazing beneath the cauldrons. 
 Dinner was far from done. 
A boy made his way, his faint shadow descending first. He came and stood then watched the window, perhaps searching for what I'd been watching. 
 We watched until the clouds cleared and the beams returned. 
"You enjoy it too," he spared me a glance and looked ahead. "Watching."
It went still, the kitchen, even the bubbling dinner as all eyes fell on us, on him, whatever he was. 
He etched toward the window, hands stretched to catch stray beams. His arm swayed in the air, yearning for a feeling craved beyond. A touch that was sure to suffice. One that would bring hope. It didn't, wouldn't, not unless it was grasped.
 His face fell, silently, his longing overflowing. 
"Knate, with a K," he whispered, barely audible, voice hanging low.
 Maybe he wasn't familiar with the rules or he had grown defiant. I wanted to indulge, to learn his secrets and make them haunt him. I was delighted to the task amongst a few. 
He turned to me expectantly, hope ridiculing his attempts, still, he waited for a reply. For a name. Hands plowing through worn trousers, sides missing quite noticeable threads, he hunched over and clutched the uneven window sill. 
Knate would be taken to the confession room, to receive his punishment that is. We who were present would be commended for not indulging. 
 No one who ever left the confession room was ever the same. Their pictures were taken and replaced with ones that would haunt and guilt them for weeks until they wore off. 
That was if they got through their penance at all. 
Olivia walked over, the stale smell that overwhelmed her suppressing the air. She came and stood and watched the boy fixed by the window. 
Maybe she felt it too, the loneliness, the unfamiliar yet familiar longing, the churning that wasn't from an empty stomach. That unexplainable gnawing, silently stirring one's soul, darkening every moment. 
 Tears stung my eyes but I didn't let it spill. Fear? Maybe. Then I would be accepting that catching those stray beams didn't hold hopes. 
Bright as ever—fires basking on the walls, dark smoke clinging to the ceilings— darkness fell in the kitchen. The blood was thickening, bubbling a fine tune. 
We felt it but played defiant.
 "The seer is ready for you," Olivia said, her voice firm, denying her action. 
She finally turned to me and handed over a slip, a wooden square with slip carved on both sides. 
I returned to the hostel after taking an uneasily quick bath. Only then were the eyes on the tree worrisome. The hard sponge carved lines on my skin and I didn't let my skin air dry. 
 I had hoped, there, that Father Benedict wouldn't see, and if he did, wouldn't notice when he watched—that I knew the boy watched. 
Stephanie was asleep when I arrived, her legs free on her bed, chest rising and falling following the stillness.