"Most people don't," Luka replied. "It's not advertised. Just... available. For those who need it."
As we reached the entrance, Luka hesitated, his hand hovering over the door handle. I watched as he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle rather than entering a place of worship.
The interior was dimly lit, the space divided into different sections representing various faith traditions. A small Christian chapel occupied one corner, complete with altar and crucifix. A Buddhist meditation area with cushions and a simple shrine filled another. A modest Jewish section featured a Torah ark and menorah.
But Luka led me toward the Islamic prayer space, a simple room with intricate geometric patterns on the walls and plush prayer rugscovering the floor. At the far end, a small alcove was set into the wall—the mihrab, indicating the direction of Mecca.
At the threshold, Luka stopped. "Shoes off," he murmured, already bending to remove his own. "This part's sacred."
"You want me to wait out here?" I asked softly, uncertain of my place in this clearly personal moment.
"No," Luka replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just... be quiet. That's all."
I followed him into the space, careful to mirror his respectful posture. Though I'd been raised in a nominally Christian household, I recognized the sanctity of the space—the same hushed reverence I'd felt in cathedrals and old churches.
Luka moved through the prayer area carefully. He approached the wall adjacent to the prayer niche, his fingers trailing lightly over the intricate patterns carved into the stone.
For several minutes, he simply stood there, eyes closed, palms flat against the wall. I remained where I was, giving him space for whatever communion or remembrance he needed.
When he finally opened his eyes and turned to me, there was a peace in his expression I'd never seen before, as if some long-held tension had finally, if temporarily, released its grip.
"My father would bring me to our village mosque," he said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet space. "Before dawn prayers. Just the two of us. He would let me help him prepare, lighting the lamps, straightening the prayer rugs." His eyes were distant, seeing not the Acropolis sanctuary but a village mosque from decades ago. "He said it was an honor to serve the house of God, even in small ways."
I stayed silent, recognizing the gift he was giving me. These precious fragments of his past had been preserved like pressed flowers between the pages of his memory.
"I haven't prayed since I was six years old," he confessed. "Not really. Not the way my father taught me. Sometimes... in the beginning... I would try. But it felt like blasphemy after what I'd done. After collecting forty-eight pennies for forty-eight souls I'd delivered to the afterlife."
"I don't think faith works that way," I said gently. "I don't think it's something you can lose the right to."
Luka's smile was sad, touched with a wisdom beyond his years. "Maybe not. But some stains don't wash out, Vincent. Not even with prayer."
He moved toward me then, reaching for my hand. His fingers intertwined with mine, warm and solid, anchoring him to the present even as his mind had been traveling through the past.
"Thank you," he said simply. "For coming here with me. For seeing this part of me, too."
"Always," I promised, squeezing his hand. "Wherever you need to go, whatever you need to show me, I'm here, Luka."
We stood there in the quiet sanctuary, hand in hand, the weight of his past and the uncertainty of our future hanging in the air around us. Something significant had happened tonight. Some barrier within Luka had softened, allowing me to glimpse more of the boy he had been, the man he might have become.
Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that this sharing, this opening, came at a cost I didn't yet understand. That there was a reason for his suddenly urgent need to show me these hidden parts of himself. My professional instincts screamed warnings I couldn't—wouldn't—fully process. Because acknowledging them meant facing the possibility that Luka was preparing for something terrible. Something final.
But I couldn't bring myself to confront him directly. Couldn't force the words past the selfish knot of fear in my throat. Because if my suspicions were correct—if he was planning something suicidal involving Prometheus and Ana—I didn't know if I was strong enough to stop him. Or brave enough to help him.
Back in our quarters,a fragile silence stretched between us. Luka moved around the space, touching objects as if logging them in his memory. He lingered on the paperback I'd left on the coffee table, a mug with dried coffee rings, the plant cutting I'd been nurturing on the windowsill.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I found him standing by the window, silhouette outlined against the artificial night lighting of the Acropolis. His reflection in the glass revealed eyes too bright, too focused on whatever mental calculations were running behind them.
"Come to bed," I said softly.
He turned, the manufactured shadows painting his face in stark relief—all sharp angles and hidden depths. When he nodded, the motion carried a weight that made my chest ache.
In bed, we lay facing each other, close enough that our breaths mingled in the narrow space between us. His fingers traced my brow,the slope of my nose, the curve of my lips as if committing them to tactile memory.
"I meant what I said earlier," he whispered, voice rough at the edges. "I love you, Vincent."
"I know." I caught his hand, pressing my lips to his palm. "I love you too."
Something flashed in his eyes. Pain, determination, fear, all braided together into an emotion I couldn't name. He leaned forward, closing the space between us, his lips finding mine in a kiss unlike any we'd shared before. Not demanding or hungry, not playful or teasing. This kiss held the quiet desperation of a prayer, a plea, a promise.
