Chapter 1

The sun hung low over Nazareth, casting long shadows across the dusty streets. The air was thick with the scent of incense and sorrow. It had been three days since the Crucifixion, and the town still reverberated with the weight of what had transpired. Jonan, an 18-year-old with dark, sun-kissed skin and a quiet demeanor, walked with purpose through the narrow alleys. His heart was heavy, not just for the man who had been crucified, but for the woman who had borne him—the Virgin Mary. He had known her since he was a child, her kindness and strength a constant in his life. Now, she was a shell of her former self, her green eyes hollow, her black hair unkempt, her once-vibrant spirit dimmed by grief.

Jonan found her in the small, humble home she had shared with her son. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open gently, his footsteps quiet on the packed earth floor. Mary sat by the window, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the horizon as if she could will her son back into existence. The room was dim, lit only by the fading light of day and the flickering flame of a single candle. The air was heavy with the scent of myrrh and the silence of mourning.

“Mary,” Jonan said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. She turned to him slowly, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from days of weeping. Her face, once radiant with maternal love, was now etched with lines of sorrow. “I ... I didn’t know where else to go,” he continued, his voice trembling. “I just ... I needed to see you.”

Mary’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she gestured weakly to the rough-hewn stool beside her. Jonan sat, his hands fidgeting nervously in his lap. The silence between them was thick, palpable, a testament to the enormity of their shared loss.

“I don’t understand,” Jonan finally said, his voice breaking. “Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to suffer like that?”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing. She simply reached out, her hand trembling as she placed it on his. Her touch was cool, almost fragile, and Jonan felt a surge of protectiveness toward her. He had always seen her as a mother figure, but in that moment, he saw her as a woman—a woman broken by grief, her faith tested in ways he could scarcely comprehend.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the back of her hand. “I wish ... I wish I could take your pain away.”

Mary’s lips quivered, and for a moment, Jonan thought she might speak. Instead, she leaned forward, her forehead resting against his shoulder. Her body shook with silent sobs, and Jonan wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as if he could shield her from the world. Her black hair brushed against his cheek, and he breathed in the faint scent of lavender that clung to her.

As the moments stretched into minutes, Jonan became acutely aware of her body pressed against his. Her curves were soft, maternal, yet there was an undeniable warmth that stirred something unfamiliar within him. He was 18, his body ripe with the restless energy of youth, and in that moment, he felt a strange, inexplicable tension. It was wrong—so wrong—but he couldn’t deny the way his heart raced, the way his breath quickened.

Mary pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. Her gaze was unfocused, lost in her grief, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that tugged at his heart. Without thinking, Jonan reached up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Her skin was smooth, cool to the touch, and he felt a flush rise to his cheeks.