My uncle always said cathedrals weren’t just buildings—they were proof that people could leave something behind that outlived them. So when he told me his last wish was to paint one, I didn’t argue.
I carried his easel, his paints, his worn-out stool, and we set up right in the plaza.
He was weaker than I expected. His hands shook when he dipped the brush, but once the bristles touched the canvas, the tremor stilled. He painted like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
People stopped to watch, whispering, some even taking photos. But he didn’t care. His eyes never left the cathedral’s spires.
At one point, he leaned closer to me and said quietly, “When I finish this, don’t keep it. Burn it.”
I froze.
“What do you mean burn it?” I whispered back.
His eyes—clouded but still fierce—met mine. “This painting isn’t meant to last. It’s not a memory. It’s a confession.”
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My chest tightened. I wanted to ask, but he turned back to the canvas, brush moving with surprising strength.
As the hours passed, the cathedral took shape—stained glass glowing, spires stretching into the heavens, every detail alive with impossible beauty. But when I leaned in closer, I saw something strange.
Hidden in the shadows of the arches, he was painting faces. Not saints. Not angels. Faces I recognized—my father, my aunt, my cousins. Our family.
And above them, darker shapes. Figures cloaked in fire and ash, towering over the cathedral walls.
The crowd gasped at the brilliance of it. But I saw the truth. My uncle wasn’t just painting a cathedral. He was painting a secret our family had buried for generations.
When he finally set down the brush, his hands trembling again, he whispered, “Promise me… you’ll destroy it. Before they see.”
And that’s when I realized—he wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of what this painting might reveal.
