Page 15 - DivineSparkRisingFinal

Nicholas Boothman
He’d sketched a spiral in spilled sugar. “Not a
circle that traps. A spiral moves.” He said. “Step by
step it strips illusion and leaves only what is real.
Those who notice are waking. Those who do not
remain asleep.”
A week later, Serpa vanished. No body. No
goodbye.
Henry deleted the message. Or tried to. His
thumb hovered.
And then he remembered Serpa’s last email. If
you ever hear whispers of the God Word, don’t
dismiss it. It will come when you are ready.
That night Henry did not sleep. The next
morning he booked a flight to Lisbon.
Rossio Square, Lisbon.
Henry sat on a stone bench, watching the crowd.
He didn’t look at faces. He read rhythms: the way
people breathed, the pauses between steps, the
phrases that repeated without thought. His
Portuguese came back easily, sliding into the air
around him.
But unease clung to him. At the airport he had
felt eyes on his back. Professional eyes. Seven
months in Yemen had taught him the difference,
and the reflexes of self-defence. Now every gesture
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