Does God exist? If someone had asked Ulrich that question before he lost his wife, he would have answered yes—that God existed, and that he saw Him every day in her. He saw His light in the reflection of his wife's eyes, His kindness in her smile, and His mercy in her actions.
But what about now, now that his wife was gone? God must be dead too, Ulrich thought. His light had faded, His kindness was lost, and His mercy had been defiled. The only proof of His existence was the memories left behind.
Ulrich didn't blame God for taking his wife. He didn't direct his anger toward Him—no. Instead, all that filled his heart was grief for the woman he had loved and a fatalistic certainty that he lived in a world created by a dead god.
Living hurt. Breathing was agony. He was a broken man walking through a world that had lost everything that made it beautiful, clinging to life more out of inertia than any real desire to keep going. At least, that was the case until the strangest girl in town knocked on his door.
Ulrich knew Katherine—or rather, his wife Anabelle had known her. They couldn't be called friends, but Anabelle had been a gentle soul who tried to see the good in all things. She had ignored all the rumors about the girl and treated her kindly, always showing concern for her situation in town.
Ulrich, on the other hand, had never cared about the girl. It wasn't that he hated her or believed the town's rumors—those were far too ridiculous and extravagant for his taste. He had simply been too focused on his own affairs to pay her any attention. Of course, that changed when Katherine showed up at his door, just days after his wife's death.
At first, Ulrich didn't know what to say when he saw the redhead standing outside his house. Then, all the rumors he had ever heard about her came rushing back, and a fury unlike anything he had ever felt ignited in his heart.
Like a crow drawn to death, here she comes to feast on the corpses and the grief. Those had been his thoughts at that moment. Only his self-control had kept him from shouting at her to leave. And for that, Ulrich was deeply grateful.
Contrary to his expectations, the girl said nothing about seeing ghosts. She didn't try to pass along some vague message from the beyond, the kind that sounded as generic as a fortune cookie prediction.
"I know this isn't my place, and I probably shouldn't interfere, but there's something that has caught my attention." Those were Katherine's first words to him.
"Your children, Petrov and Anneth, have been wearing the same clothes to school for several days in a row. Other kids have started making negative comments about it. One way or another, it caught my attention." There had been doubt, nervousness, and even a hint of fear in her voice—he remembered that. But more than anything, he remembered the shame that washed over him when he realized just how much he had neglected his children.
Ulrich hadn't even managed to form a coherent response before the girl continued with what sounded like a speech she had rehearsed beforehand. "I know this might seem sudden, but the church can offer guidance on how to cope with grief. It will be difficult at first—death always is—but we are here for you. If you feel like you can't find the strength to move forward, think of your wife, of what she would have wanted for you, for the fruits of your love that she left behind—your children."
God was dead, just like his wife—Ulrich was certain of that. And yet, there was His light, shining in Katherine's spring-green eyes. It hurt to see God's kindness in her smile, just as he had once seen it in his wife's. But there was also something strangely comforting about it. Katherine was an odd girl, shunned by everyone around her, yet still filled with God's mercy.
Seeing that Ulrich remained lost in thought, Katherine kept speaking, though her insecurity grew by the second. "If you'd like, I could help with the laundry and other household chores on weekends—maybe even play with the children. That way, they'd be well cared for, and you'd get some rest…" She paused, gathering the courage needed to finish her speech. "If not for yourself, do it for your children, for your wife, so that she may find peace. Do this, and I promise she will watch over you from heaven."
Ulrich remembered envying the certainty with which the girl spoke of heaven, as if she knew for a fact that such a place existed and that his wife had gone there. But what he remembered most—besides saying yes to the girl—was the realization he had when he accepted her kindness.
God is dead, but He left His miracles behind. Anabelle had been one of those miracles, just as his children were the miracle she had left behind. And Katherine had been a reminder of all of it, arriving when he needed it most.
The past weeks had been difficult, so much so that Ulrich had considered taking the easy way out. The only thing keeping him going had been the existence of his children. Katherine changed that when she gave him hope and a purpose.
Each day hurt almost as much as the last. His wife's shadow lingered in every corner, at every moment. He looked at his beloved children with a numb heart that bled with every beat it gave for them. But Ulrich had found the strength to keep going, to survive his loss—if only so his wife could rest in peace.
Days like this, when he could see his children smile again, brought a new kind of pain—one filled with nostalgia and regret for the lost opportunity. Yet, it was precisely moments like these that made everything worth it. They also made him wonder if some of the rumors about the girl were true.
It was hard not to ask such questions. Not when the way she spoke sometimes reminded him so much of his wife—the way she modulated her voice to sound stricter and more authoritative than her small frame should allow, while a warm maternal undertone seeped into her body language. That was how Anabelle had gotten the children to behave, and it worked like a charm every time.
The way Katherine got distracted mid-conversation, as if listening to someone else, was hard to ignore, just like her choice of words, which often seemed to come from someone else entirely. Then there were the occasional comments she let slip—things she shouldn't know, things only Anabelle and he had known.
Ulrich never asked about it. He had always been skeptical of such things, but that wasn't why he never asked—he preferred not to know. No, that wasn't true. The truth was, he wanted all those rumors to be wrong, because if they weren't, it meant the girl was seeing the ghost of his late wife. And that could only mean that his beloved Anabelle was not at rest.
There were also all the other implications tied to the rumors about Katherine, and frankly, that was a rabbit hole no one would willingly jump into. Deep down, Ulrich knew there was far more to the redhead than he was willing to accept, and he couldn't even begin to imagine what her life must be like—but he didn't want to get involved.
It was cruel, yes, to take everything the girl had to offer while remaining indifferent enough to her reality to avoid being affected by it. Ulrich felt like a coward every time he failed to summon the courage to offer her something in return for all she had done for him.
He felt guilty about it, but not guilty enough to change. Katherine could stare into the abyss in a way he couldn't fully understand. All he knew was that he didn't want to be anywhere near her when the abyss stared back.
I don't want my children near her either, Ulrich thought as he watched his kids obediently gather their toys from the playground after Katherine told them to.
Ulrich gathered his courage as he saw the girl approaching him. Today would be the day. He had to do it, no matter how much his own cowardice and ingratitude hurt. No matter how much those spring-green eyes, full of life and light, made him hesitate—it was time to cut ties with the girl.
The conversation was… brief and easier than Ulrich had expected. He tried to offer an explanation for his decision to create distance between her and his family, but she didn't allow it.
"Don't worry, Mr. Volkov, I understand. There's no need for explanations. Would you allow me to say goodbye to the children?" That was Katherine's response. A simple request to say farewell.
She didn't demand explanations, didn't express confusion over his decision, didn't have an outburst of righteous indignation. No, she simply showed a kind yet sorrowful acceptance—almost as if she were used to this kind of treatment. Maybe she was used to it. Guilt gnawed at me as I told her it was fine to say goodbye to Viktor and Anneth.
As I watched her back retreat, her red curls tousled by the wind, a thought came to mind. God is dead. People like me killed Him. Those who turned their backs even on the miracles He left behind.
Like the cowardly hypocrite I am, I held firm to my decision, leaving behind only a prayer to a dead god. I pray that you forgive me, Katherine, and that you never lose your light despite all of us who bask in its warmth without ever feeding the flames before turning our backs on you.