The Old Prostitute: A Tale of Faith and Defiance

The Snowy Road

The road to the village was blanketed in snow, muffling every sound except the occasional whisper of the cold wind. Just before the village, a decrepit hut stood like a forgotten relic. Its dusty windows reflected no light, and a solitary crow perched on the roof, its cawing breaking the stillness of the day.

Inside the hut, the air was heavy with the smell of poverty, decay, and a lingering chill that no fire could chase away. A young man, dressed in pristine white, sat upright on a rickety chair. Across from him, an old woman reclined against a faded pillow, her face lined with years of hardship. Before her sat a half-finished glass of tea, its steam long gone.

Chapter 2: A Sermon of Redemption

The young man spoke with unwavering conviction, his words cascading like a sermon.

"God is merciful," he declared. "The gates of forgiveness remain open for those who repent. Even if, in your youth, you were a sinner—a prostitute—God's compassion knows no bounds. Poverty may have driven you to sin, but salvation is still within your reach."

The woman remained silent, her gaze distant. She sipped her tea without interest, the glass trembling slightly in her hand.

"You always blame God," the man continued, his voice gaining intensity. "You say you suffered, that men turned you into a toy, dragged you to brothels, and stole your dignity. You claim God wrote this fate for you, but repentance can change your destiny. Pray, and He will save you from the fire of hell."

Chapter 3: Smoke and Defiance

The woman stirred at last, her movements deliberate. She reached beneath the thin mattress and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. With practiced ease, she lit one, her hands steady as she inhaled deeply. The smoke curled around her, filling the small room with its bitter aroma.

The young man frowned. "Smoking is a sin, a shame for any woman," he chastised. "How can you seek forgiveness while clinging to your vices?"

The old woman exhaled slowly, the smoke forming a veil between them. She didn't flick the growing ash, as though she had forgotten—or didn't care.

"Sitting silently won't heal your pain," the man pressed on. "Get up, pray, and ask for forgiveness. God will absolve your sins if you truly repent."

The woman finally looked at him. Her eyes, weary yet piercing, locked onto his. She flicked the ash from her cigarette with a casual flick of her wrist and spoke, her voice low and unyielding.

"If God forgives me," she said, her words hanging in the air like a challenge, "I won't forgive God."