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The great ministry library has never looked quite like this.
Soft candlelight pools over the old wooden tables, spilling onto well-used books and well-worn chairs. Someone has dragged in a phonograph that is humming soft jazz in the background, while the ghouls and ghoulettes have been setting up trays of wine, hot coca and pastries. Terzo insists they are imported (he was told they were…they are not).
You have absolutely no idea who came up with the idea or the name of “Poetry Night”, but the phrase has stuck. The promise of some kind of open mic with performances from the clergy and ghouls alike quickly turned this into an entire event- one that Primo called “a celebration of creative devotion” and Terzo deemed “an opportunity for dramatic suffering.”
And somewhere along the way, during the planning process, someone invited Secondo.
He’s here now, sitting in the back, arms folded, eyes half lidded as he observes the chaos unfolding in front of him. Candlelight bounces off his rings as he adjusts his glasses- giving him an aura of confidence. You sit beside him, enthused that he has even showed up in the first place.
As Primo takes the stage first he sighs heavily.
Primo’s poem is calm and rhythmic, full of deep imagery of moonlight, renewal and new beginnings. He reads it as though he is performing a sacred blessing and the enthralled siblings of sin around the room listen with true reverence.
Secondo, mutters under his breath just loud enough for you to hear:
“Hmph, predictable.”
You bite back a giggle by clearing your throat, nudging him gently with your elbow.
“He’s just setting the tone.”
“The tone is sleepy.” He grumbles, but you watch the slightest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Then Nihil takes the floor.
His “poem” really isn’t even a poem. Somehow, it turns into an extended speech about his “years of lyrical genius” that “carried” the ministry forward and how “no one writes with the soul of a rock and roll genius anymore.” Across the room Copia looks both impressed but also extremely confused. Secondo just rubs both of his temples.
“If he rhymes Ghuleh with olé, one more time…I am leaving.”
Then comes Terzo.
Terzo, of course, arrives on stage with a dramatic flourish- twirling the mic cord around his gloved fingers.
“My poem,” he declares “is about passion…longing…and the injustice of running out of wine at dinner.”
You can feel Secondo’s glare without even needing to look over at him. You have to physically put a hand over your mouth to stifle laughter.
The poem,-although this isn’t much of a poem either-is a wild mixture of flirting, rhythm, and self-indulgent metaphors- all of which of course make the siblings swoon and howl with laughter. Even Copia claps enthusiastically once it finally ends.
From the back of the room, Secondo mutters darkly:
“Philistine.”
“Oh, come on, fratello!” Terzo calls back to him. “You cannot tell me it did not move you!”
“Yes. To drink.” Secondo calls back towards him.
The Ghouls burst into laughter, and even Primo has to hide his smile behind his hand.
When the noise settles, you turn to Secondo.
“Your turn.”
“My what?” He blinks.
“You’ve criticized everyone else’s poems, so now you have to contribute. It’s the rule.”
“I do not follow rules made by fools.”
“Then consider it a challenge!” You tilt your head, lips curling into a large smirk. “Or are you afraid you’ll enjoy yourself?”
And then comes that sharp inhale, that flicker of personal affront- but then he slowly stands, the crowd hushes completely almost instantly.
He doesn’t take the stage so much as command it. Moving with that measured calm that also doubles as dominance, making the air shift around him. His hands are clasped behind his back, voice low and deliberate as he speaks.
The poem is simple. Straightforward. Precise.
Every word is chosen carefully, like notes in a beautifully written symphony. He speaks of devotion- not to gods or deities, but to fleeting moments: the sound of rain against stained glass, the warmth of hands meeting in candlelight, the ache of remembering something sacred and small that feels like incredible grandeur.
No dramatics, no silliness, no flaunts or flourishes, just Secondo’s voice. Slow and steady. Carrying weight and memory.
When he finally finishes, there’s a long silence and stillness that washes across the room.
All you can hear is the faint scratch of the phonograph needle and your own heartbeat.
Then Nihil coughs. “Hmph. Bit sentimental.”
Primo elbows him harshly. “It was beautiful.”
Terzo dramatically wipes an imaginary tear. “My heart. It bleeds!”
Copia sniffles quietly, actually very moved.
Secondo clears his throat finally. “It was nothing, just a draft.”
But there’s a flicker of warmth in his expression. Something vulnerable flickering under his mask of indifference that you can clearly see. When he returns to his seat, the crowd erupts into applause, laughter and teasing- with Terzo demanding an encore.
You lean close to him and whisper “It really was beautiful, you know.”
He exhales, a long and low breath, before replying to you under his breath.
“Perhaps. But don’t tell them that.”
Later on, when the candles burn low and the room fully empties out, you catch him quietly tucking a piece of folded parchment back into a leather bound notebook. His hand lingers there for a moment before he snaps it shut.
You don’t say anything at all. You just pass him the last glass of wine with a smile. He takes it with a faint smirk.
“Next time,” he says softly “you read first.”