The church of rock and pillar was nothing without the many colours of light.

“I-I don’t understand.” I whispered, my voice wobbly with uncertainty. “This…this is me, isn’t it?”

The priest smiled at me softly and nodded, his hands clasped before him, his white sleeves long.

Slowly turning back to admire the stained glass windows as if they were old friends, he let out a long sigh.

“It certainly is, Miss Beck.”

“Amanda, please.”

I expected him to laugh then, as if this was all some elaborate joke. Instead he said, “This place is certainly grand, isn’t it?” He sounded kind of sad.

“I-I guess so.” I replied, trying not to sound impatient. Here was an old church I’d never been to before, with stained glass windows somehow accurately depicting moments of my life, and he wanted to talk about how grand it was here? he better get some explaining done— and soon.

“Can you tell me how this came to be?” I asked quietly, deciding to voice my thoughts out loud. was he even listening?!

“Of course.” he said, smiling sadly again. “My dear girl, you are a great and holy saint. There are hundreds of people who worship your name. You died for us, and reborn you were in the form you currently reside in. Amanda Beck, or as you were more widely known; Sankta Amandora.”

Saint Amanda. I suppressed a shiver, wondering why it felt like I already knew that name.

“Perhaps you don’t save us from evil in your new life,” the priest continued, touching his beard thoughtfully. “Perhaps you don’t feel like you are doing anything Saint like at all. But we worship the life you live now just as we did the previous one.”

I wanted to laugh like it was all crazy, a stupid game. Perhaps a dream. Instead, I looked closer at the glass windows.

There I was, on my first day of primary school, my front teeth missing and my hand raising in excitement. there I was, helping an elderly woman cross the road, looking after my sister’s cat, learning to drive, dancing with my lover.

My life wasn’t important, or special, and it certainly didn’t deserve to be made into stained glass as if preserving something so holy my life would shatter before me if I tried to touch it. I didn’t want to believe I was a saint, but I decided a long time ago that denying things I didn’t understand got me nowhere.

Instead of telling him that he must have found the wrong person, that I wasn’t special at all, I asked another question that was bugging me.

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked him in a hollow voice. “I’m 23 years old, why did you wait so long?”

“Because,” replied the priest. “Because this holy place, this grand, almost-ancient church…it’s getting demolished, Miss Beck. Your followers and I can do nothing to stop it. Soon, it will be no more, and instead there will be a-a new so-called parking lot!” He seemed to lose it a little at the end of his speech, as if the thought of losing his church was driving him to insanity. I reached out my hand and touched his shoulder, and in that moment I felt a strong power seize my chest.

“No, it won’t.” I said. “We’ll save it. We will save your church. My church.”