Two years had passed since Mateo stood at the podium as valedictorian, his voice steady and full of promise. The memory of applause still lived faintly in his mind, like a fading echo from another lifetime. Back then, he believed excellence and perseverance would finally win him peace. He believed recognition would silence the doubts, and faithfulness would shield him from unseen enemies.
But the seminary had its own designs.
By his second year in theology, whispers began to move through the corridors - whispers he could neither trace nor silence. He noticed how some formators avoided his eyes, how conversations hushed when he entered a room. He carried on with his duties, as always, with precision and grace, yet beneath the surface something had already been decided.
One late afternoon, Mateo was called into the rector's office. The air inside was heavy, not with anger, but with something far colder - resignation. He was told to leave. No explanation. No crime named. No failing cited. Just a verdict, delivered as if rehearsed long before he had ever walked into the theology department.
For a moment, he could not speak. The words fell upon him like a sentence from a judge, stripping him not only of his place but of the future he had devoted his entire youth to pursue. Mateo left the office quietly, the echo of his footsteps against the old seminary floor sounding louder than ever before. His hands trembled, but his mind burned with a single, unrelenting question: Was this truly the will of God, or the work of men who had conspired against him?
The chessboard of his life had shifted. Every move he had made with care, every sacrifice, every hour of prayer and study - all of it seemed to collapse into one cruel declaration: Checkmate.
