9:11 PM, KYKKOS MONASTERY, CYPRUS

Nikos leaned against the stone pillar, looking out past the bell tower to the stars. A certain ominous silence filled the stone courtyard, like a palpable presence. Nikos rolled this impression over in his mind, like he was mulling over the flavor of a rare wine. He smelled the air, and it smelled fresh, even with the familiar stone and wood and herb garden smells he was accustomed to mingling before his nose, the air smelled clean and fresh, as if it came from the rich, black sky at which he was looking. There were few sounds, as the other monks had all retired for the night. There was a presence here, though, and he was sure it was a holy presence. His faith had always been strong, even when he was a child, but lately it had seemed a bit stale. He had performed his duties adequately, but that sense of the numenous was missing. This feeling, this strange fresh air and empty sky, the outlines of the angled stairways and rooftops, the mountains behind them dim shapes against an infinite sky; this was something. It felt rich, and deep, like the purest holy oils. Some sort of grandness was here, an eternal feeling, as if he were a tiny bug standing on a page of the holy scriptures, unable to read even a single word, but feeling the import, the vast message of truth before him. He could not decipher a purpose for such a message, nothing tangible to do or to think. He felt it was simply a sign; something for him to understand that a Holy God was with him. It was scary, too. The terror of standing before a living God was more than the human mind or soul could bear, and even this silent message, the terrible, jagged edges of the tower raised into the sky, the shining and awful beauty of the perfect stones he stood upon, there was a certain horror in it all. Holiness, terror, love and fear; the forces of the universe were here, before him, around him, within him. And he felt it all and it overcame him, and he fell, prostrate, before the Lord.