Episode 2

Vlad. He arrives not with a fanfare of trumpets or the clatter of armor, but as a whisper on the wind, a shadow that solidifies into a presence. He is as real to me as the worn teddy bear clutched in my arms, as tangible as the sunlight streaming through the window. He doesn’t speak in words I can articulate, not then. It’s a language of feeling, of a stern but gentle pressure against my small hand, a cool breath on my cheek when danger, however minuscule, flickers near.

One sweltering afternoon, I’m playing near the edge of the woods bordering our base. My ball, a bright red sphere, bounces erratically and rolls into a thicket of thorny bushes. I, of course, with the reckless abandon of childhood, am about to plunge in after it. A prickle of unease, sharp and sudden, races up my spine. It’s not my own fear, but a warning, a silent command to stop. I freeze, my small hand reaching out, and then I see it. A garter snake, its scales a dull olive green, slithers silently through the very spot where my ball has landed. My breath catches, a tiny gasp lost in the humid air. And then, a familiar stillness descends. Vlad. I can feel his presence, a solid, unwavering shield. The snake, sensing an unseen barrier, coils and retreats, disappearing into the undergrowth. My ball, untouched, lies just beyond the thorns. He has protected me, as always.

The next few years are a blur of forts and foreign lands. The scent of pine gives way to the exotic spices of Izmir, Turkey. Our new home is a villa overlooking the shimmering Aegean Sea, a world away from the quiet familiarity of Virginia. The language is different, the customs strange, but the constant in my life remains. Vlad.

Izmir is a city of vibrant bazaars and ancient ruins, a place where history breathes from every cobblestone. I am seven now, and my understanding of His presence is deepening, though still shrouded in the mystery of my young mind. I remember a day spent exploring the ruins of Ephesus with my parents. The sun beat down relentlessly, the air thick with the murmur of cicadas. I had wandered off, drawn by the allure of a fallen column, a marble fragment catching my eye. Again, that familiar, cold dread washes over me, a premonition of something unseen. I look up, and a section of the crumbling wall above me shifts. Loose stones, dislodged by time and weather, begin to tumble.

A hand, impossibly strong, grasps my shoulder. It’s not my mother’s soft touch or my father’s firm grip. This is different. It’s a pressure that roots me to the spot, a silent imperative to stay. The stones crash to the ground, mere feet from where I stand, kicking up a cloud of ancient dust. My mother rushes towards me, her face pale with alarm, but I am already looking past her, towards the shimmering heat haze where I sense Him. He is there, a silent guardian, his presence a balm against the sudden terror. He has saved me again, his ancient strength a bulwark against the fragility of my young life and the indifference of time. My honor, my life, protected by an echo from centuries past.