As Mark was engrossed in the excitement of city life, John kept to his old ways. He strolled to St. Mark's Church each night, lit a candle, and prayed. The Church remained his only source of tranquility in the middle of the noisy metropolis. However, as the months passed, he began to feel the loneliness in his heart.

John longed for his son, for the closeness they once had and the feeling of family that simply being at home with Mark had given him. He prayed each day for his son's return, believing that the faith he had instilled in Mark would help him find his way back. As he sat alone in their small apartment, John would sometimes close his eyes and remember Mark as a child—his laughter, his curious questions, the way he would hold John's hand during Mass. These memories kept him going, even as the loneliness weighed heavily on him. John knew that the seeds of faith he had planted in his son were still there, and he hoped they would eventually grow again.

But Mark's visits diminished, and John's hopes began to fade. His health deteriorated, and his shoulders slumped from grief. The Church was still his solace, though even the candle flames no longer burned as brightly. The emptiness of his apartment without Mark's laughter weighed heavily on John, and he found himself growing weaker both in body and spirit.

One evening, he sat on a pew, praying with clasped hands. "Oh God," he whispered, his voice cracking, "please protect my son. Bring him home." His words echoed in the empty silence of the Church. He knew his son was lost but refused to give up hope. He continued to light a candle for Mark every night, the small flame symbolising the hope he carried in his heart.