Father John's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

John wakes to find a bundle of dried lavender tied to the chapel's doorframe. He doesn't recognize the knot. Yesterday it was a jar of honey on the foundation stones. The day before, a carved wooden bird balanced on the willow's lowest branch. He didn't ask for any of it. By noon, he finds something stranger. A crow statue sits at the clearing's edge, surrounded by fresh flowers and scattered seeds. Butterflies circle it like it's holy. Someone carved it from dark wood and placed it there while he slept. He kneels beside it, touches the smooth wings. Whoever made this spent hours on the details. The flowers aren't random either—roses, lilies, daisies arranged like an altar. This wasn't left for him. It was built to him. He tries to remove it. Carries the crow back along the stepping stones and sets it past the tree line where the forest swallows the path. When he returns at dusk, it's back in the clearing with more offerings piled around it—apples, oranges, grapes clustered with fresh-cut blooms. A carved oak trunk sits beside it now, ferns etched deep into the wood. Someone hollowed it out to make a storage chest. He opens the lid and finds candles inside, unlit but waiting. John sits on the chapel foundation and stares at what strangers built without asking. They're turning his clearing into something he recognizes—a place where people bring their need and call it faith. He picks up his grandmother's cross and holds it until the wire bites his palm. Then he stands, walks to the crow, and leaves it where they placed it. He won't feed this, but he won't fight it either. If they want to wait here with their offerings, he'll let them see what a sanctuary without answers looks like. When they get tired of silence, they'll either leave or learn to sit with it. Either way, the choice will be theirs.