THE NEXT DAY, the clock showed just before eight in the morning when the plane began its descent over English territory. London's sky appeared covered by a gray, damp blanket, typical of an autumn that never smiled.From above, Father Raphaniè Marin watched the river winding between bridges as if it were a living scar on the city's skin. It was his first time on British soil—and, for the first time in years, he felt something truly strange, a sense of spiritual unease, almost like a silent warning.
As the plane taxied along the runway, he closed his eyes for a moment and prayed the Lord's Prayer, trying to understand that premonition that made him feel watched. Perhaps it was just the fatigue from night flights… perhaps not.
In the arrivals area, the cold air and the scent of fresh coffee greeted him like a nearly liturgical breath. Among dozens of drivers and guides holding signs with the names of businessmen, tourists, and diplomats, one man stood out for his posture and sobriety: tall, with a firm, pronounced nose, a broad forehead, and black curly hair reflecting the artificial light of the airport. He wore dark gray trousers, a white shirt, and a black overcoat that gave him the air of a secret agent.
In his hands, a sign in capital letters:
RAPHANIÈ MARIN.
— That's me — the priest announced, forcing a smile as he approached.
The man looked at him without expression:
— Follow me, please, Father — he replied dryly, picking up his suitcase with a precise, almost military gesture.
They walked side by side through the terminal corridors, passing storefronts, drowsy tourists, and hurried executives. As they passed a newsstand, something caught Raphaniè's attention like a lightning crack in the fog: a headline in bold letters displayed in the main window of The Sunny.
"Jessyca Volpi and Witchcraft."
And just below, in smaller but equally sharp letters:
"The top model and her secret past in the countryside of Brazil."
The priest's heart raced. His legs faltered for a moment, and he had to steady himself against the side of the counter.This was no coincidence. It couldn't be.
— Wait... — he murmured, his voice thick, calling out to the guide walking a few steps ahead. The man simply stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and waited with an impatient air.
Raphaniè bought a copy of the newspaper, carefully folding it before placing it inside the leather folder he carried close to his chest.Inside, something was gnawing at him.
In the car, a gray Mercedes with a dark leather interior, he settled into the back seat beside the taciturn Englishman. The silence between them was as dense as the fog covering London's streets that morning.
— Where are we going? — Raphaniè asked, trying to break the ice.
The driver lifted his gaze to the rearview mirror.
— I was expecting you to know, Father.
Raphaniè raised an eyebrow, surprised by the tone of the reply.
— Very well... — he said after a brief pause. — Then head to Temple Church.
The driver nodded, starting the engine. The deep rumble of the vehicle echoed through the underground parking like a metallic breath.
During the drive, the priest opened the newspaper on his lap and searched for the article. When he found it, he read the author's name printed just below the title:
Saul Nolland.
Raphaniè's breath caught for a moment. His mind traveled back to a past he preferred to keep buried.
It can't be the same man... — he thought, but something inside him said it was.
The newspaper trembled slightly in his hands. The car moved through the wet streets, cutting across historic alleys and centuries-old bridges as if passing through time itself. The coincidence was too great.
Was it a sign from God? Or a trap carefully prepared by the Enemy?
As the Mercedes disappeared into the London fog, Raphaniè Marin no longer knew which of the two forces he should believe.