Monk

Chapter 1

POV: Stefan

Present Day

The sheets of paper made an annoying, dry rasp as she turned them over. I kept my gaze fixed on my shoes, picking at a wisp of dried grass stuck to the heel. I had come straight from the new lavender fields; the monastery sold it to me. It was a stretch of land near the woods that was useless for anything else, and I still carried the scent of earth and labor.

“Where were you born?”

Another swish of paper. She pretended to arrange my file neatly, but I could see her struggling to locate the information she needed.

I smiled at her. It was my wide, genuine smile—the one that had always worked miracles for me. It made me look naive, a demeanor I learned during service and actually grew to like—a stark contrast to the hollow, ancient feeling I carried inside.

What she was searching for wasn’t in any documents or files. It was a secret buried between Father Jovan and me, and bless his soul, he had taken it to his grave.

“Around here. Not sure,” I said, leaning back in the chair and looking out the window to the red ceramic rooftops that were one of the signatures of this city.

“Ahem. Mr. Stefan.”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t want to help yourself, I can’t help you.”

She set the papers down on the low table between us with a sharp slap. The small office reminded me of every other bureaucratic space I’d seen—beige walls, a dying plant, the smell of stale coffee.

“Did I ask for help?”

Her nostrils flared, a crack in her professional mask. “You were sent to me...”

“As a part of the procedure,” I finished for her, letting every word hang separately in the heavy air.

When I arrived at the monastery, no one asked if I wished to be part of that life. No one cared if it was my calling. And now, when I was finally old enough to decide for myself, they didn’t want me.

“You came here as a fourteen-year-old boy,” she insisted, leaning forward. “It's old enough to remeber you early life.”

I did—more than she could handle.

The silence made her nervous.

“We are done for today.” She stood up dramatically, a reaction that amused me.

I remembered my past clearly. I just chose not to talk about it. I decided to be an unimportant, invisible young man, working in the monastery’s lavender fields, turning them into a successful nursery garden—until Father Jovan decided I stuck out like a sore thumb among the brothers.

They watched me and questioned me. When Father Jovan, my only family, died, they regarded his word as law and told me to step down from the service. They asked me to come here so this woman, with her limited imagination, could decide who I was.

A holy man or a black sheep.

I took a deep breath and stood. She brushed small drops of nervous sweat from her upper lip. If I didn’t know how black my blood was, I wouldn’t have tried so hard to be good at what Father Jovan wanted for me.

“Would you like to schedule the next appointment?” Her voice almost begged me not to. Behind her, the window sat in a frame where black rot had begun to gather on the wood.

“Tomorrow,” I suggested.

She nodded, scribbling it into her book. I bet she thought I needed an exorcism more than therapy.

“Mr. Stefan...”

“Just Stefan.”

“I am not sure I am the right person for you.”

She sensed the wrongness in me, but even her trained brain couldn’t pin it down.

“You are as good as any other.” I pushed my hands into my pockets. It was nice to wear simple clothes, to feel freedom of movement as I left the monk’s robe for good.

I walked out of her office.

On the street, I felt hot fumes in the air—city grit, exhaust, roasted chestnuts. My lavender fields, compared with the Belgrade streets, seemed like a long-lost dream. The town looked completely different from my memories, and it wasn’t just because I had seen it back then from the perspective of a frightened boy.

This was the perspective of a man who was free and never wanted to be given that privilege.

I turned three corners before reaching Knez Mihailova Street. The most expensive men’s boutique sat on the corner, displaying headless mannequins, offering ideas of how dignity could look if tailored to your measurements.

“Sir, can I help you?” The blonde girl with a gap between her teeth looked at me, smiling.

“Yes. I want that one.” I pointed to the black suit in the window, dark as a raven’s wing.

“We don’t sell samples, but we can take measurements and make one to fit you perfectly.”

I walked up to the glass. “This one will fit. How much?”

She blinked, then took it from the plastic doll. The cold man made of fiberglass, standing naked, looked a bit too much like me.

The evening air was thin and biting. Kids begged for money on the corners, and street artists pulled strings of sadness from their violins.

I walked down the steep street, a road I knew by heart, crossing the old train tracks to the wrong side of town—just a breath away from all the glitter money could buy. My steps became heavier as I approached rows of small houses that should have been razed to the ground by now, but weren’t. They stood like rotting teeth in the jaw of the city.

The third house, second row, was still in my name. Father Jovan had made sure it stayed mine, as if he never actually believed I would shake off my past.

I approached the windows, bathed in darkness, moving slowly, like a predator stalking his prey. The house beside mine looked almost the same as I remembered. There were some rough roof tiles, red as fresh blood and brand new. Roses and night-blooming flowers added a sweet, cloying scent to the air, masking the smell of damp.

But the rest was the same—shabby, with cracks running down the front wall like veins.

“Jesus!”

The gate groaned, hanging onto its hinges for dear life. A woman stumbled outside barefoot, holding her heels in her hands, and yanked her skirt down over her thighs.

“If I come back and he is not fed and put in bed on time, you will be a dead woman, do you hear me?”

“Fuck you!” came another voice from inside.

She took a couple of steps toward the gate, then doubled back and kicked the already unhinged door with her bare foot. Another salvo of the juiciest swear words filled the street.

“Come here.” She hoisted a kid onto her hip.

“Where will you keep that child while you work like a whore?” the voice from inside screeched.

“Oh, shut up.” She walked from the house, the boy’s legs almost dragging along the dirty ground. He was too big to be hoisted around. “You will keep Mama company, yes, you will. I can’t leave you with this witch.”

The streetlamp cast a sickly yellow light on her face, and a jolt went through me. It was not the face I expected; she looked older, yet it was still a face I would recognize anywhere.

Heat flared under my skin, the old wound pulsing, pushing me years back to that night of horror.

December 12, 2025

For new readers:

-This is the second book in the IT HAD TO BE ME series.

-Every story can be read as a standalone.

-The first book, “Mia,” is complete and free on my page. The stories have different vibes. Give it a chance :)

Thank you, Mira.

Here is the link: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1565039