A black day before sunrise

Painting in the Basilica of Constantine at Trier, Germany. The church was built in 310 AD.

They huddled behind locked doors, afraid, confused, exhausted, in shock. Three years of their lives has been destroyed yesterday with the cruelest of executions and ironies. Their friend and leader, a man who loved life, who preached love, who cared for people, who brought fresh life to religion, had been murdered by a mob of religious fanatics. Gone were the words and laughter and promises and hope he inspired in each of them. They were so alone.
Each had his own memories, perhaps of his teachings sitting on a hillside overlooking the Galilean Sea, or watching his kindness toward all sorts of sinners and lowlife, or praying  in a synagogue, or attending a wedding, or reclining around a table, laughing, telling stories, sipping wine and sharing bread. It was just so unjust and wrong and unfair. He'd never harmed anyone, and now...now what?
It was Sabbath, and supposed to be a holy day, a day for God. Surely they wondered where their God was, how their God could have permitted so much blackness to overcome goodness, as they kept asking "Why?" over and over, running the events through their minds, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. And the next day, they stayed huddled behind those locked doors, remembering the blood and suffering and agony, and wondering what they would do next, if they would ever live "normal" lives again.
They wouldn't.

"On the evening of the first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jews, ...."John 21:19

Interior of the Basilica, built about 277 years after the the crucifixion.