A family friend once told me about a church in Mainz with blue stained-glass windows so strange they frightened her son.

I’d been looking for them ever since we’d landed.

~

Mainz cathedral looked like several buildings pressed into one. Romanesque walls rose beside Gothic ribs and later Baroque additions. Stonework changed as we moved around it.

Inside, the kids got loud almost immediately.

I had expected a quick visit. A few photos, then on to the next thing.

Instead, Dani and the kids disappeared into the cathedral.

I followed, then lost them.

I checked the pews.

Nothing.

I walked down one aisle, then another.

I looked behind columns and into side chapels, checking each opening for a familiar face.

Nothing.

My phone had no signal.

Then I saw it.

A window unlike the others.

From across the cathedral, it looked almost completely blue, with a single vertical band of color running through it.

I walked closer.

It looked strangely modern. Almost too simple.

I took out my camera.

Maybe this was the window our friend had told us about.

I took a picture and kept looking.

I checked the pews again.

No wife.

I looked down the side aisles, then circled the perimeter.

Still no kids.

Five minutes passed.

The cathedral was grand, but my interest in old churches had limits. Usually, those limits were measured by the number of camera angles I could find.

Still no family.

I headed for the exit.

Instead of outside though, the door opened onto a courtyard.

I stopped.

Stone paths crossed a small garden.

Sunlight caught the grass.

Ancient headstones and monuments covered the walls.

I stood there for a moment.

Then I turned around.

The kids were still somewhere inside.

I went back through the cathedral and found another door.

This time it led to the street.

My phone came back to life.

Messages.

Tracking.

I followed the signal toward the gift shop.

Inside, I found my family

The kids were looking at souvenirs while Dani stood beside a display of books and postcards.

She smiled when she saw me.

I didn’t.

“Where were you? I was looking for you.”

She laughed.

“I was trying to give you a moment of peace.”

I pointed toward the cathedral.

“Wish I’d known. At least, I found the blue window.”

She laughed again.

“What blue window?”

“The one with the line through it.”

I scrolled through my camera.

In the photo, it wasn’t blue after all.

The gift store clerk leaned over the counter then.

“If you want blue stained-glass, Saint Stephen’s is a half-kilometer.”

She pointed.

“That way.”

~

The next evening, I slipped out after the kids had fallen asleep.

The church wasn’t far.

I followed quiet cobbled streets through the old city until I reached its doors.

It sat at the top of a hill.

Music drifted from inside.

I pulled on the handle.

Locked.

A notice was taped beside the entrance, but my phone refused to translate its handwritten

script.

Through the crack between the doors, I caught a glimpse of blue light spilling across the stone floor.

I tried the door one last time

“Locked.”

Then I backed away.

From across the plaza, the last sunlight caught the cathedral in warm pink stone.

Cyclists crossed empty squares.

Statues emerged from the lengthening shadows.

The sky turned orange. The city turned red.

I headed back to the hotel.