To Those Who Remember

I close my eyes, the scenery fading as my mind drifts. For a moment, the world is still, nothing but a blank canvas. When I open my eyes again, I was surprised to find my hands moving as if on their own, a pencil in my grip, sketching a figure on the paper before me.

"Let's see…" I murmur softly, my eyes studying the lines forming. "What should I add?" I looked at the paper. "Ah, black long hair would do… beauty marks, maybe. You should be tall too."

As my hand moves, the figure begins to take form – graceful and striking, with every line and curve capturing something ethereal. I lean back contented.

The figure staring back at me from the paper is stunning. "You're beautiful" I whisper under my breath. The image feels real, like it's a person – someone alive in this moment, someone you've created with my own hands.

Just then, a voice can be heard. "You need to attend your practice" a voice so familiar – my mother's.

I turn, a bit startled, and raise an eyebrow. "Why? Can't I skip just this once?" I asked.

"No, now. This is for God. Why are you neglecting Him?" her words hang heavy in the air.

I sigh softly as I get ready and walk to the church. I didn't want to go, but duty called, and here I am. As I join the rest of the choir, they were busy preparing everything that's needed. The priest was the one watching us.

The moment we start playing, the tension is too great – everyone is careful, not wanting to make mistake, but one of the choir members hits a wrong note. The sound echoes through the room, harsh and off-tune.

"Again! Focus! How many times do I have to tell you?" the priest words sting, filled with irritation, and the member shrinks under his gaze.

I can't help but flinch, he was scary. I don't want to be like them. I don't want to make a mistake and be scolded, humiliated in front of everyone.

My hands begin to tremble slightly as I grip my instrument.

I have to be calm. Composed. I can't show weakness.

After hours of practice, I finally exhale as the tension leaves my body. I've made it through without error nor faltering.

"You" the priest stood up, pointing at me. "You were perfect. Elegance in every note. Calm, composed. A true example of what it means to serve God with your talent."

His praise was unexpected, but it fills me with a strange pride.

"The others should strive to be like you" he continues, his gaze narrowing at the rest of the members. "This is how you should perform – without fear, without mistakes. You've done well."

"Thank you" I smiled softly and left the hall, their gazes following me.

That night, I stayed in my room, continuing the drawing I didn't finished. When it was done, there's a sense of satisfaction blooming in my chest. "Your name will be Exian" I murmur softly.

I don't even notice how the hours pass as I stay up, sketching, lost in the art. Then dawn breaks, I feel exhausted but I push it aside. Today is our performance.

The church is bustling when I arrive and I could feel the presence of God as we play. The rest of the choir plays in harmony, the sound filling the church with sacred, beautiful melody.

My eyes drift over the people who has joy etched in their faces. The priest stands, his eyes shining with pride as he watches the play. But then, something changes. My hand suddenly shakes, an unexpected tremor running through my fingers. I tried to steady it, but the movement is too strong, too sudden. The note I play goes off, harsh and wrong, shattering the whole flow of the melody. The sound echoes through the church, and everything falls silent.

I froze. Every pair of eyes seems to turn toward me. The priest's gaze sharpens, his expression unreadable. I stopped playing. The room feels too quiet, too still.

"Haha go, continue!" the priest exclaimed.

----

"How could you make such a mistake?!" the priest snapped, his words echoing off the walls. "This is not just about the music. It's about your devotion, your focus on God. What were you thinking, messing up in front of the whole congregation?!"

I stood with my head low. Every word felt like a weight on my chest. As his hands gripped mines, a small piece of paper slipped from my pocket. I didn't even realize it had fallen until the priest's eyes caught sight of it. His gaze immediately narrowed, and he bent down to pick it up.

When he saw the drawing, his expression darkened. He stared at it for a long moment. "This…" he murmured, shaking his head as he looked up at you, disgust in his eyes. "This is what you've been doing? Drawing this…this?" his voice grew louder. "You've been influenced by the devil! This is what you worship now? This false image? This is blasphemy!"

I tried to speak, but the words stick in my throat. He held the paper up, the image of Exian, still perfect and beautiful, reflected in his eyes but all he saw was something wicked. His hands trembled with rage as he crumpled the paper in his fists, preparing to tear it apart.

"If you are to create, it should be for God! Your hands should make offerings, not these…idols! You are brainwashed! You must repent before it's too late."

Before he can destroy the drawing, someone calls for him to be on the stage. He shoves the paper back into my hand roughly. "We'll talk more about this later. For now, go. Reflect on your actions"

I nod and leave the backroom quickly. The world outside feels distant, muted, as I sit at my desk once again.

"I'm sorry" I whisper, the words slipping out. "I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! I'M SO SORRY!"

My hand instinctively reaches for the paper. I take it out slowly, my eyes scanning the drawing, feeling a sense of shame.

It's wrong.

It has to be wrong. I was wrong

With trembling hands, I begin to alter the drawing. The character I once envisioned as Exian shifts before my eyes, changing forms. I add robes, the symbol of cross etched on his clothing. The character's posture becomes more reserved, more restrained, embodying the calm, humble image I believe the priest wants to see.

My vision, beliefs, and purpose… It should all just be to the greatness of Him.

As tears stains the paper. I looked at the new Exian.

"I'm sorry" I whisper again, this time to the drawing, to the version of myself I've been trying to be.

I don't know what I should become or what I was supposed to be.

"I just want peace… peace for myself."

----

I open my eyes, tears still fresh on my cheeks. But instead of my room, I find myself back on the rooftop – the present. The stars stretch endlessly above, and the wind was gentle. Exian is there sitting. His figure is illuminated by the moonlight and his gaze is fixed on the horizon, distant and contemplative.

Slowly, I move closer and sit down beside him. Neither of us speak for that moment. Then my voice broke that silence.

"You'll definitely find peace" I say, my eyes meeting his. "I'll make sure of it."

Exian says nothing, but his gaze holds a flicker of something – hope, perhaps, or a silent acknowledgement. The two of us just sit there, the world was quiet, and the stars above seem to shine just a little brighter.