The Darkness Was Doing Just Fine, Thank You
(short version)

Based on John 1:1-18 – Light shines in darkness, which does not overcome it.

Disclaimer:
This story is a journey of discovery. Some names may ring a bell. Any resemblance to famous figures is deliberate, dangerous, and… let’s just say, not quite what you expect. You are invited to continue the journey.

The town had its rhythm. Streets were quiet in the evenings, shops opened on time, and children played freely without a care. Life was ordinary, predictable, and, most importantly, safe. Darkness was nothing to fear; it was the comfort of the unknown, the blanket that kept chaos tucked away.

Then Lucan arrived.

It happened on a Tuesday morning. He walked into town with a suitcase in one hand and a polite smile in the other. The first person he met was Mrs. Penrose, who ran the bakery. She blinked at him. “That’s an interesting name,” she said. “What does it mean?”

Lucan tilted his head, considering. “It means Light,” he said. “Light that’s… good, or at least, everyone says it is.”

Mrs. Penrose nodded slowly, not quite sure what to make of that, but she smiled anyway. “Well, let’s see what you can do, then.”

At first, Lucan’s helpfulness was charming. He fixed a leaky faucet in the tavern, organised the library’s messy shelves, and even redirected the town’s wandering chickens into a neat little pen. People began to whisper: perhaps this guy was truly a blessing.

But then, little things started to go wrong. The tavern faucet broke again, spraying water across the floor. The library’s shelves toppled in a domino effect, burying several books under a pile of encyclopedias. And the chickens, well, they escaped and caused a minor stampede through the main street.

Still, Lucan was earnest, oblivious to the chaos trailing him. “I only meant to help,” he said each time, face earnest, hands open.

Continue reading the full story here.

The Darkness Was Doing Just Fine, Thank You

Based on John 1:1-18 – Light shines in darkness, which does not overcome it.

Disclaimer:
This story is a journey of discovery. Some names may ring a bell. Any resemblance to famous figures is deliberate, dangerous, and… let’s just say, not quite what you expect. You are invited to continue the journey.

The town had its rhythm. Streets were quiet in the evenings, shops opened on time, and children played freely without a care. Life was ordinary, predictable, and, most importantly, safe. Darkness was nothing to fear; it was the comfort of the unknown, the blanket that kept chaos tucked away.

Then Lucan arrived.

It happened on a Tuesday morning. He walked into town with a suitcase in one hand and a polite smile in the other. The first person he met was Mrs. Penrose, who ran the bakery. She blinked at him. “That’s an interesting name,” she said. “What does it mean?”

Lucan tilted his head, considering. “It means Light,” he said. “Light that’s… good, or at least, everyone says it is.”

Mrs. Penrose nodded slowly, not quite sure what to make of that, but she smiled anyway. “Well, let’s see what you can do, then.”

At first, Lucan’s helpfulness was charming. He fixed a leaky faucet in the tavern, organised the library’s messy shelves, and even redirected the town’s wandering chickens into a neat little pen. People began to whisper: perhaps this guy was truly a blessing.

But then, little things started to go wrong. The tavern faucet broke again, spraying water across the floor. The library’s shelves toppled in a domino effect, burying several books under a pile of encyclopedias. And the chickens, well, they escaped and caused a minor stampede through the main street.

Still, Lucan was earnest, oblivious to the chaos trailing him. “I only meant to help,” he said each time, face earnest, hands open.

Across the street from the town square, hidden behind a high, wrought-iron gate and an overgrown hedge, stood a house children whispered about in fearful tones. Its windows were dark, and its walls seemed to lean forward as though watching. The grown-ups didn’t say much about it, but everyone knew the stories: the man inside was dangerous, or worse, a witch or warlock.

Voldemort lived there.

When he appeared on the street, the town collectively shivered. Long robes brushed the pavement. Eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the scene with an intensity that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. He moved slowly, deliberately, and never smiled. Children shrank behind their parents. Even the dogs seemed to keep a wary distance.

For all his fearsome reputation, Voldemort did not speak to anyone unless he had to. But when he did, his words carried weight, heavy as a stormcloud.

It was in the middle of the week when Lucan’s well-meaning chaos reached its apex. A small fire broke out in the mill, sparked by a pile of misplaced equipment. Smoke curled skyward, and sparks threatened to leap to the thatched roofs of the neighbouring buildings. Panic spread quickly. Townsfolk ran in every direction. “Call someone!” they shouted. “Do something!”

Lucan froze. “I… I can fix this,” he said, but nothing he tried worked. His intentions were pure, but his actions made the fire worse, toppling a cart of hay directly into the blaze. The town trembled.

Then Voldemort appeared.

He did not rush in with frantic energy. He did not wave a hand or conjure miracles. He walked. Slowly. Methodically. Children peered through cracks in the fence as he surveyed the situation. With a calculated nod, he instructed several townspeople to move debris. With a firm pull and push, he redirected a water cart into position, smothering the flames.

By the time the fire was out, the mill was scorched but standing. Not a life was lost. Not a roof collapsed. Not a single child was harmed. Lucan stood panting, humbled. He looked at Voldemort, expecting to see the sneer of a triumphant villain. But there was only the quiet, cold composure of a man who had done what needed to be done.

Without a word, Voldemort turned and retreated to his house. The town exhaled collectively, relief washing over them, but uneasily. Their assumptions about good and evil had just been shattered.

For a few days, things returned to normal. Children played in the streets, adults went about their business, and Lucan busied himself with smaller, safer tasks, a little wiser, a little humbler.

Then one afternoon, as sunlight spilled lazily across the cobblestones, a group of children played with a ball near Voldemort’s fence. It bounced just over the high wrought-iron gate and rolled into the shadowed yard.

“Go get it,” one of the children said.

The chosen child approached the fence cautiously, eyes wide, heart thumping. He raised a hand, hesitated, then placed it on the cold metal gate. His fingers gripped the bars lightly. He looked back at his friends.