𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑺𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑾𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑺 /𝑗𝑗 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑘

𝟎𝟏𝟎.

___________________
𝑴𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹'𝑺 𝑩𝑬𝑻𝑹𝑨𝒀𝑨𝑳
𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑒，𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑑𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑟．
𝟑:𝟑𝟐 — 𝟏𝟔:𝟏𝟏
___________________

AS I STEP INTO the mansion, the air thick with the scent of wealth and extravagance, the whispers of poverty seem to echo in my mind like a cruel taunt. The man closes the door behind us, and Pope's hand brushes against mine, our eyes locking in a shared moment of concern. He strides forward, his footsteps echoing off the marble floor, gesturing for us to follow him into a adjacent room. "Just wait in here. Ms. Limbrey will be right with you." he says, his voice dripping with an air of superiority.

As he disappears from view, Pope and I are left alone in the cavernous space. The natural sunlight streaming through the windows illuminates the room, casting a warm glow over the opulent furnishings. I gaze around me, taking in the sheer scale of the living room, its walls adorned with gold chandeliers that sparkle like diamonds. The baroque aesthetic is intoxicating, a riot of color and pattern that threatens to overwhelm.

My eyes wander to the walls, lined with paintings and family portraits that seem to stretch on forever. But it's not the familiar faces or stern expressions that catch my attention - it's the scenes from the Bible that unfold before me. In every painting, a figure I assume is Jesus Christ reaches out with healing hands, as if channeling some divine power.

Pope's eyes meet mine, his expression mirroring my own curiosity as we both stare at the bookshelf groaning under the weight of leather-bound tomes.

I read the titles aloud, my voice barely above a whisper: "Divine Healing. Divine Miracles. Faith and Miracles." A shiver runs down my spine as I turn to Pope, my voice low and urgent: "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Pope's whisper is equally hushed: "What does this have to do with your mom?" His eyes search mine for answers, but I'm no closer to understanding.

Our silent reverie is shattered by the sound of footsteps approaching. We turn as one, our heads snapping towards the doorway as Ms. Limbrey finally appears before us.

As Ms. Limbrey enters the room, I'm struck by the stark contrast between her appearance and my expectations.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this - a tall, imposing figure with a gentle smile and an air of quiet authority.

Her light blonde hair is styled in a 1960s-era headband. Her face, however, tells a different story. The fine lines and creases etched into her skin are testaments to the passage of time, no amount of lotions or plastic surgeries able to fully erase the signs of aging. Her eyes, deep and rounded like two shimmering sapphires, seem to hold a secret, her fine eyebrows perpetually arched in a knowing expression that suggests she possesses knowledge we can only guess at.

Her makeup is subtle, understated, a pair of gold earrings glint in the soft light, and her silky clothes rustle as she moves with a quiet elegance that belies her frailty. The big guy that was at the door trails behind her while Ms. Limbrey is on her crutches. His eyes fixed on some point beyond us as he labors to keep pace with her slow gait.