No return address.
Just a padded envelope slipped under Mark’s hospital door at dawn.
Inside:
– The tape.
– A photo.
Burnt edges.
Two boys standing near a church altar.
One of them was definitely Mark.
The other had no face—literally scratched off.
Mariam looked at it in silence.
“Is that you?”
“I think so. But I’ve never been to that church.”
She turned the photo.
In faded ink:
“St. George’s Church – 2004.”
Later that day, against Dr. Bishoy’s orders, Mark convinced Mariam to take him there.
St. George’s was nearly abandoned.
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Paint peeling. Candles barely lit.
But someone was inside.
A man in his fifties, in black robes, sat near the altar.
He turned before they even spoke.
As if he’d been waiting.
“Mark Fawzy. You came back.”
Mark froze.
“How do you know my name?”
The priest stood.
“Because I baptized you.”
His name was Father Youssef.
And apparently, he had known Mark’s family before “everything burned.”
“You and Elijah used to come here all the time.
But only one of you survived that night.”
Mark blinked.
“I don’t remember him.”
Father Youssef stared at him with heavy eyes.
“That’s because he never left.”
Back at the hospital, Mark played the third tape.
This time, Elijah was louder. Conflicted. Almost human.
“They told you I died in the fire.
But fire doesn’t kill souls, Mark.
It fuses them.”
“Every time you sleep, I wake up.
Every time you doubt yourself… I remember.”
Mark shut off the player.
Tears welled in his eyes.
Mariam sat beside him.
“What if… you’re not crazy?” she asked quietly.
“What if Elijah was real… and part of him is still inside you?”
Mark looked at her, a storm behind his eyes.
“I’m scared, Mariam.
Not of Elijah.
Of who I used to be.”
To be continued...