Chapter 222: Faith [1]

Prague, Czech Republic.

"In the end, I really came here," Silas said under his breath.

The words disappeared beneath the river's noise.

He stood near the edge of Kampa Island, his camera hanging against his chest, his backpack heavy on one shoulder, a cold wind moving in from the water. Across the Vltava, the old towers and rooftops of Prague rose beneath the fading afternoon light. Their dark silhouettes cut through a sky that had begun to turn pale gold near the horizon.

Silas had spent most of the day walking.

His feet hurt.

His hands had gone cold from holding the camera.

His phone battery was low, his backpack was too full, and he had already spent more money than he should have on food, transport, museum tickets, and a coffee he barely drank because he had been too busy staring out of the café window.

Still, he did not regret coming.

Not really.

He was studying business at college.

He did well in it.

His grades were good. He understood the subjects. Finance, management, marketing, business law, none of it was beyond him. He knew it was a safe degree. It gave him options. It offered the possibility of a stable job, a decent salary, and enough money to support himself after graduation.

That was why he had chosen it.

After high school, he had not known what else to do.

He did not come from a family that could afford for him to spend years chasing uncertain dreams. He needed something practical. Something that would make him independent. Something that would give him the ability to pay rent, buy food, and perhaps save enough money for the life he actually wanted later.

The life he wanted had nothing to do with business.

Silas lowered his eyes toward the black DSLR camera resting against his chest.

Photography.

If the choice had been entirely his, he would have traveled.

He would have taken trains across Europe, crossed cities on foot, climbed hills before sunrise, and waited in unfamiliar streets until the light struck old buildings in the exact way he wanted. He would have photographed ruined castles, cathedrals, bridges, palaces, mountain villages, sea cliffs, narrow streets after rain, and every strange place whose beauty could not be explained properly through words.

He wanted to capture places.

Not simply take pictures of them.

He wanted to catch the feeling of standing somewhere ancient, somewhere immense, somewhere that had existed long before him and would remain long after he was gone.

But wanting something did not make it affordable.

Camera equipment cost money.

Flights cost money.

Food, hotels, transport, entrance tickets, repairs, memory cards, lenses, everything demanded money. Traveling full-time was a distant dream, one Silas had pushed aside so he could focus on school and the safer future everyone expected him to build.

His trip to Prague had been impulsive.

The plane ticket had appeared cheap enough when he checked during spring break. He had stared at it for nearly an hour before booking it. By the time he confirmed the payment, he had already begun regretting the amount disappearing from his savings.

He still felt a little guilty.

He could have kept the money.

He could have put it aside for rent next semester. He could have saved it for something more responsible. He could have bought nothing, done nothing, and returned to class after break with the same amount waiting in his account.

Instead, he had come here.

And now he stood beside the Vltava River with the Charles Bridge stretching across the water before him.

Silas looked up.

The bridge was crowded on the far side, though not as badly as it had been earlier in the day. Tourists moved between the stone statues. Street performers played music near the towers. Groups of people stopped in the middle to take photographs, speaking in different languages as they leaned against the old railing.

From Kampa Island, the bridge looked different.

Quieter.

The Gothic towers rose above the far entrance, dark against the sky. Their narrow windows and pointed roofs gave them the appearance of something built for an older world, a place where kings, knights, and priests still moved through the city streets.

Silas had spent the day taking photographs throughout Prague.

He had photographed the narrow lanes around Old Town. He had stood beneath tall church towers and tried to capture the way their details climbed into the sky. He had taken pictures of Baroque façades, old courtyards, statues, clocks, and streets that seemed to turn unexpectedly into another century.

But this was the photograph he wanted most.

The bridge.

The towers.

The river.

The fading light.

He had found an elevated patch of ground beside the water, near a cluster of trees and rocks. The spot was empty, thankfully. No tourists crowded behind him. No one stood directly in front of his camera. The slight height gave him a clean view over the river and toward the bridge.

Silas lifted the DSLR.

He adjusted the focus.

The image sharpened inside the viewfinder.

Stone bridge.

Dark towers.

The line of statues.

The pale reflection of the sky rippling across the river.

He shifted the lens slightly, searching for the best composition. He wanted the towers centered. He wanted enough of the river in the frame to give the bridge depth. He wanted the fading sunlight to touch the stone without making the photograph too bright.

Then a shadow passed in front of the lens.

Silas's expression twisted immediately.

Someone had walked into his shot.

He almost lowered the camera.

The thought had already formed in his mind: "Seriously? There is an entire riverbank, and they had to stop exactly there?"

But the shadow continued moving.

It did not cross the frame completely.

Instead, it stepped farther away and climbed onto a small rock near the water.

A figure entered the image.

Silas stopped.

For a moment, he forgot about the bridge.

The woman stood with her back partly turned toward him, looking over the river. The breeze moved around her, lifting long curls of golden-blond hair that had been tied loosely with a ribbon. Strands slipped free and framed her face.

She wore a gown that did not belong in the modern world around them.

The fabric was deep sapphire silk, so dark that it seemed black in the shadowed folds. But whenever the light touched it, violet and silver threads appeared within the cloth, shining briefly before disappearing again. The gown rested over one shoulder, held by a braided silver strap that crossed her left side. Her right shoulder remained bare, pale against the dark fabric.

The dress flowed diagonally across her body in soft folds before falling to her feet.

The hem brushed against the rock beneath her.

It looked too elegant for the riverside.

Silas stared through the camera viewfinder.

He had photographed beautiful people before.

Tourists, classmates, strangers in city streets, couples posing beside old buildings. He knew how much a photograph could change someone. Good light could soften features. The right angle could make an ordinary face memorable.

But this woman did not need the camera.

Her face was already clear within the frame.

Her eyes were bright blue, the shade of a summer sky after rain. They did not look empty or distant. They held an alertness that made him feel as though she understood far more than she should.

She turned slightly.

The breeze lifted her hair again.

Silas's finger hovered over the shutter.

He did not take the picture.

He could not.

The moment felt too strange.

The bridge behind her had become background. The river had become background. Prague itself had become background.

All he could see was the woman standing on the rock.

He needed to look away from the lens.

He needed to know whether she was real.

Slowly, Silas lowered the camera.

The strap tightened briefly against the back of his neck as the DSLR fell against his chest.

The woman was still there.

Flesh and blood.

The dark sapphire dress moved around her legs in the wind. Her hair caught the fading sunlight. Her blue eyes rested on him with an amused expression.

"Better, wouldn't you say?" She asked.

Silas stared at her.

For several seconds, no answer came to him.

"Excuse me?" He finally managed to speak.

The woman smiled.

"My name is Faith."

She stepped down from the rock with a swift movement, landing on the grass before him. She was shorter than he expected. Her head reached around the height of his chest, though she looked close enough to his own age.

Faith raised her hand toward him.

Silas looked at it.

Her fingers were slender. Her skin looked soft beneath the fading light. A silver ring rested near one knuckle, marked with a symbol he did not recognize.

He understood what she wanted.

He lowered his camera completely and took one step forward.

His hand closed around hers.

Her hand was warm.

Faith's smile widened.

Silas became too much aware of the way she looked at him.

Her blue eyes remained on his face.

He felt awkward beneath her attention. He had no idea what expression he was making. He did not know whether he should let go of her hand. He did not know what a normal person was supposed to say when a woman dressed as though she had stepped out of a painting introduced herself beside the Charles Bridge.

"I'm Silas," he said.

The words came with a slight stutter.

Faith did not release his hand, and her smile widened.

"I know."