The small chapel stood quietly among the pines, its whitewashed walls warm in the late afternoon sun. Inside, the faint scent of incense mingled softly with the cool sea air drifting up from the Aegean below. At the threshold, a man with severe eyes and a beard reaching down to the buttoned collar of his plaid shirt hesitated briefly, unsure if stepping inside was wise. Maria had gently insisted he visit this elder—one of those monks from Athos who was said to be able to see people’s souls. He'd reluctantly agreed, more to placate her than anything else.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside. Icons lined the walls, softly illuminated by the gentle glow of an oil lamp. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, his gaze fell involuntarily upon the icon of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. He quickly turned away and shifted his focus—first to the elder, then down to the floor. The icon had the same gold-flaked background as the one at home, glimmering, brushstrokes visible even at this distance. It all came rushing back.

It had happened in an instant: a child's playful embrace accidentally striking him too hard, a reflexive shove in return. No anger—just instinct, triggered before he could even think. He silently repeated the psychologist’s words, desperately hoping repetition alone could blunt the vivid image of his son lying beneath the fallen icon, crying softly, one eye swelling, darkening into a bruise edged with blood. He had promised himself, sworn quietly, that he would rather die than become his father. Yet here he was, becoming exactly what he'd promised he never would be.

The entire cab ride here, every bridge they crossed had quietly beckoned him, each promising a new horizon—nothingness, hell, it didn’t matter. Just one step, a momentary plunge, the concrete finality of impact, and then release. Perhaps that was the only good left to him now—the one true thing he could do to keep his promise to his son.

“Sit. Sit,” said the elder.

He shook himself slightly, returning to the room. He took a seat in the chair opposite the elder, cleared his throat, and forced a casual tone. “Geronda, we’re all trying to be good, right? Isn't that enough, or can anyone ever be enough for this God of yours?”

The elder tapped his cane softly, its thin shadow stretching across the chapel floor. “Can I ask you a question?”

The man didn’t come here to answer questions. He came here for the elder to answer his question. If the elder saw his soul, he'd already have his answer. He exhaled slowly, clenching his teeth, then nodded his head. “Yes.”

“What is good?”

He didn’t know how to answer. He began looking around, but even avoiding the icon of St. Nicholas, everywhere eyes were looking back at him. Too tired to think clearly, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Being nice to people and not hurting anyone. Loving people for who they are."

The elder lifted himself slowly to his feet, gripping his staff. "Love," said the elder softly, fixing his gaze on some hidden point just above the man’s head. For a moment the elder’s eyes rolled upward slightly, as if lost in an ecstasy, but before the man could fully grasp what was happening, the elder returned to himself. Looking down gently, he said, “But how do you love someone for 'who they are'? What even makes someone ‘who they are?’"

The elder’s question was more pointed and philosophically astute than he had expected. Unprepared, he said the first thing he could manage: “What they do. The choices they make.”

"But what if they make bad choices—does that make them a bad person or unlovable?"

He felt the temperature rising and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping off the beads of sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. Sighing, he placed the handkerchief back in his pocket. Yes, he would have to say—but the elder would inevitably challenge him, making everything worse. He cursed inwardly at his own foolishness just as the elder snapped his fingers gently, drawing him back into attention.

“Oh, child. If a person is about to jump from a bridge, do you love them any less? Do you simply let them jump, or say they deserve it just because they offended you once, perhaps gave you a black eye?”

The man's throat tightened. He couldn’t have heard the elder correctly. It had to be coincidence. But he was cornered. Quietly he admitted, “I guess you'd try to stop them.”

The elder smiled warmly, as though some hidden light had filled the room and brightened his eyes. “So you'd still love them? But why?”

“Because anyone who's going to kill themselves is insane. No one is in their right mind when they do it. Because they're more than that moment.”

The elder eased back into his chair, looking pleased. The man almost resented him for it, but he couldn’t—he looked too childlike, too innocent. "So what about you, my boy? Are you only that moment?”

Suddenly, it hit him. It was true. This elder could see right through him. He knew everything and yet, somehow, nothing had changed in the elder’s demeanor toward him; his gaze remained just the same. He didn’t judge him. “I don’t know.”

The elder reached out his aged hand and patted the man gently, tousling his hair. It was just as he himself would tousle his son’s hair, with the same affection. He wished there was somewhere he could go, to escape the elder, but he knew there was nowhere he could hide from those x-ray eyes. All he could do was receive his judgment. "Geronda, clearly you can see everything; why don’t you judge me?"

"Oh, my child, because I love you." He playfully patted the man on the head, spreading a sort of holy warmth through him. "God loves you."

"But why?" said the man. He still couldn’t imagine how anyone could not judge him let alone still love him, knowing what this man knew.

The elder lifted up the man’s sinking chin and raised the man’s eyes to meet his own. With complete guilelessness, he said, "Simply because you are. Why need there be anything else?"