Piero walked until his shoes wore through. He slept in ossuaries and empty castles. One night, he stumbled into a valley that the plague had somehow missed. A small stone church stood at its center, smoke curling from its chimney. Inside, a woman no older than twenty was kneading dough. A child slept in a cradle by the fire.
The friar laughed—a dry, coughing sound. “Then you’re walking the wrong way. Heaven isn’t south. It isn’t east or west either. I’ve read Augustine, Aquinas, all the maps of the divine. The kingdom is within . Or so they say. But I’ll tell you a secret, boy: I’ve looked inside. There’s just hunger and fear.” the kingdom of heaven
“I can’t go on,” he said. A black bruise had flowered under his arm. “Go. Find your kingdom.” Piero walked until his shoes wore through
That night, lying on the floor of the single room, listening to three other people breathe, Piero understood. A small stone church stood at its center,
On the third day, he found a man sitting on an upturned barrel outside a burned mill. The man wore the tattered robe of a Dominican friar, but his tonsure had grown into a wild grey thicket.
“You’re the first living soul I’ve seen in a week,” the man said. “Where are you going?”