The Cardini Count’s domain was harsh and barren. Farmland was scarce, and the unpredictable weather meant that a plentiful harvest could hardly be expected, no matter how hard they worked. Surrounded on all sides by jagged mountains, trade and travel were difficult.

The people of the domain survived precariously, living off the mountain beasts they caught. They had heard that life beyond the mountains was somewhat more bearable, but this remained little more than a distant fantasy. Born and raised there, they blamed their own fate rather than cursing the gods.

Everything changed for the barren domain the day a silver vein was discovered in the foothills. Initially, the Count was reluctant to grant permission for exploration and showed little interest. However, the moment he laid eyes on the gleaming ore, his indifference vanished, replaced by fervent zeal. As though the mountains themselves wished to reward this newfound passion, more and more veins were revealed beneath the long-silent ridges.

The people no longer went hungry or survived by hunting wild beasts. Whether in the blazing summer sun or the biting winter cold, they shouldered heavy pickaxes and climbed the stony slopes to dig. From the narrow valleys, carts piled high with silver rumbled endlessly out, their wheels groaning beneath the weight of their precious cargo.

The Cardini name had once been tarnished, but now it gleamed so brightly that its light reached even the distant capital. Yet for the people of the domain, little had truly changed. While they were no longer starving or freezing to death, mourning bells still tolled in every village whenever someone died in an accident, which happened all too often.

Around that time, the old priest, who had come here in his youth and served this poor parish for decades, passed away and was buried in the soil he had tended. To fill the vacancy, the Church sent a new priest who was young and inexperienced. This was now his second spring among them.

In the pale hour before dawn, when the world was still shrouded in darkness, the church doors creaked open. Men in worn, dust-stained work clothes filed quietly inside. When the front rows were full, the weary women took their places at the back.

In the aged, dilapidated chapel, scarred by years of neglect, stood Serpino, the sole priest of the Cardini estate.

“Let us pray to our Mother, Justina, who has lit this morning for us once again.”

At the priest’s command, the poor lambs folded their hands in prayer. Dressed in spotless white vestments, Serpino intoned the sacred words in a solemn voice that pierced the silence of the dawn. Yet deep down, he felt that every word was hollow.

Not because the people before him could not read a single line of scripture. Nor because they were paupers, too poor to offer even a single coin. It was because he doubted whether meaningless prayers could truly save them. This quiet scepticism weighed heavily on his mind.

Only last winter, many had perished. Countless others bore the scars of loss — an arm, a leg, or stolen breath. The mining developers, in cahoots with the count, had driven the people mercilessly through foul weather. Without proper winter clothing, they swung pickaxes against frozen earth with hands already raw and frostbitten.

Serpino had been powerless to help them. All he could do was pray for the repose of those who returned as cold, lifeless bodies.

Inside the chapel, dry coughs echoed more frequently than prayers to God. When the short service ended, the men rose at once and scattered like shadows, desperate to reach the mines before sunrise.

Serpino stood silently, watching them go. All he could do was pray for their safety. Even the white vestments draped across his shoulders suddenly felt like an unforgivable luxury.

Then, from among the congregation dispersing around him, a gaunt-faced woman stepped hesitantly towards Serpino.

“Father… may I make a confession?”

“Yes, of course.”

Without hesitation, Serpino opened the door to the confessional. The woman slipped inside first and disappeared into the small booth.

When he closed the door and turned around, he saw several more women waiting nearby for their turn. As with all those who came to confess, their eyes shifted nervously and their bodies curled up as though their souls were already condemned.

He thought he ought to be quick. Entering the chamber on the opposite side, he was immediately met with the stale, suffocating air of the confessional — thick with mould and heavy with the scent of rot layered upon years of dust-like sins. It was the stench of a coffin.

The moment he slid open the narrow window connecting the two rooms, a woman’s voice broke the silence.

“Last night… I refused my husband’s demands.”

From dawn onwards, the sins offered up for God’s forgiveness were always so minor. On more than one occasion, Serpino longed to ask outright whether these sins were truly so grave.

These women were pitiful enough already, and their belief that they were guilty made them even more so. Was it a crime to be too weary, too burdened, or too barren to fulfil a husband’s desires? Who could condemn them for that?

Yet he could not voice such thoughts. Instead, he forced himself to maintain the measured, steady tone expected of a priest.

“Did you feel any desire to betray your husband?”

“No, of course not. I was simply too tired yesterday…”

As he watched her falter, Serpino suppressed a sigh. Not even God, he thought, would condemn her. Nevertheless, he performed his duty with calm resolve.

“Then Justitina will forgive you your sin.”

“Will she… truly?”

“Yes. Offer a prayer of repentance before the sun sets, and tonight fulfill your duty as a wife.”

“Yes, thank you.”

The woman bowed her head again and again as she withdrew. One by one, others stepped into the booth to take her place.

Measured against the burdens they carried each day, the sins they confessed were unbearably slight—resenting a child for a passing moment, or harboring some other fleeting fault of the heart. And Serpino granted absolution to them all, whether it was by God’s will or by the authority the Church had vested in him.

By the time Serpino emerged from the confessional, the chapel was already empty. On the altar sat a single egg and a handful of dirt-streaked potatoes — the greatest offering that the poor could spare. With a heart full of quiet gratitude, he gathered them up.

His breakfast was so meagre that it could hardly be called a meal, yet once he had finished, he began his day in earnest. His first task was to step into the church’s small backyard. The seeds he had planted in spring had already begun to sprout. Rolling up his sleeves, he crouched down to pull up the weeds that were threatening the tender shoots.

For priests assigned to remote parishes, growing one’s own food was nothing out of the ordinary. Tales of clerics lining their pockets with church gold belonged to another world. Here, simply keeping the chapel standing was a struggle, given the meagre alms that trickled in. Back in the monastery, before his ordination, he had worked the soil alongside the others.

But this was only his second spring as a priest, and farming barren ground alone was harder than he could ever have imagined. He persevered, sweating and feeling awkward in his efforts, until suddenly the gate burst open and a breathless man stumbled in.

“Father!”

“What is it, brother?”

“My wife—my wife…”

The man faltered, choking on his words. Serpino needed no reminder; he clearly remembered the man’s wife. On the last Sabbath, she had appeared to be close to her due date. Struggling to steady his breathing, the man wept.

“Quickly, please, hurry…”

“I understand.”

Something was terribly wrong. Without brushing the dirt from his robes, Serpino hurriedly followed the man towards his home, which was far from the church.

Like most dwellings in the area, his home was little more than a shabby hut. Serpino arrived a step behind the man and peered inside. The place was in disarray; the straw bed was drenched in blood. The midwife knelt beside the unconscious woman, shouting desperately at her.

“Stay with us! You have to hold your baby — where do you think you’re going?”

The woman’s shallow breaths were faint and rasping; each one seemed to be her last. One glance told Serpino that her condition was critical. Her face had turned deathly pale, and she had lost a lot of blood.

Steeling himself, he forced himself to take in the scene carefully. A basket filled with hastily prepared swaddling cloths lay on the floor. He pulled back the edge of the fabric. Inside was a newborn, trembling weakly and too frail to cry.

Thank God the child was alive. But was it truly a blessing when it was destined to lose its mother from the very first moment of its life?