Hildegarde Serle

If Ophelia had learned one thing in life, it was that errors were indispensible for personal development.

“You want to solve every problem on your own,” she continued in a choked voice, “even if it means using people like chess pieces, even if it means making yourself hated by the whole world.”

“And you, do you still hate me?”

“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Good,” Thorn grunted between his teeth. “Because I’ve never made such an effort not to be hated by someone.”

“We’re living in a truly enigmatic world,” she said, shielding her glasses with her hand. “I’ve been reading all sorts of objects for years, and yet I feel as if I know nothing. An Earth shattered to pieces. Deliberately forgetful family spirits. Indecipherable Books. You.”

God could be so cruel in his indifference, he horrified me. God knew how to show his gentle side, too, and I loved him as I’ve loved no one else.

Who is God? What does God want? What does God look like?

All of his memories gravitate around this central character, and yet none of them can put a face to him. But the emotion choking him when, as now, he observes God from his table, from his folded arms, through the parting of his hair, is only too clear.

Fear.

He doesn’t understand, he has never understood, what God expects of him.

He is scared of becoming what God expects of him, and he is also scared of never becoming it.

It’s your heart that he really needs, not your hands.”

Having feared that she hadn’t earned Berenilde’s esteem, she now felt crushed under the weight of her expectations.

Hector was insatiably curious, asking his “why”s to anyone prepared to listen.

Ophelia tilted her head to see whether the sky was looking that menacing. She thought she was seeing things when, instead of clouds, she saw Thorn’s grim face.