The church was quiet beneath the weight of winter’s breath.

Outside, snow pressed the village into stillness, muffling footsteps and softening edges. Inside, the cold seeped through the stone walls and lingered beneath the flicker of candles. You moved through the sanctuary like a shadow—lighting lamps, tending the altar, watching as light spilled slowly across worn wood.

He came as he always did.

Meursault entered without announcement, his coat dusted with frost. He did not bow, did not kneel, nor did he cross himself.

He walked down the aisle and settled in the seats near the back, the one where the stained glass barely reached. There, he sat perfectly still—watching you more than the altar, listening to the quiet breath of the chapel.

He never spoke to you. And yet, sometimes, low and distant, his voice broke the silence.

“Il fait froid aujourd’hui.”

The words hung between you like smoke.

After a time, he spoke again, voice rough, a whisper.

“Mais j’aime ça. On peut entendre mieux.”

He watched your hands move through the rituals of light and shadow, the small movements you made without thought—the folding of cloth, the tilting of candles. His eyes traced the curve of your silhouette against the winter light, as if learning how to hold something he did not understand.

Sometimes, he confided in French, voice heavy with things you could not grasp.

“Elle ne criait pas... je l’ai regardée... puis j’ai tiré.”

You never questioned what he was saying.

The weight of those words settled between you like a frozen stone, neither warm nor cold, but there—impossible to ignore.

On other mornings, when the snow thickened, he came inside soaked and silent, his breath fogging the air as he sat without word. He never sought absolution, never begged for grace.

Only your presence. He spoke again, quieter now.

“Je vous regarde, c’est tout.”

You remained silent, a steady anchor in his turbulent world.

Day after day, he returned, drawn not by gods or prayers, but by the unspoken understanding you offered. The church was not sanctuary. It was something else—a place where he could be seen without question, and where the cold might soften just enough to touch something faintly like peace.

And in that fragile stillness, a strange kind of affection took root—quiet, hesitant, and utterly without words.

Over time, his reasons for coming became less clear—even to him. The chapel was no longer just a shelter from the cold or a place to escape the ghosts of his past. It became a space where your presence filled the silence, where the simple act of your breathing was something he craved.

He never spoke to you directly.

But sometimes, when the afternoon light waned and the shadows grew long, he would lean forward in his pew, eyes fixed on your hands as they moved with practiced grace. It was as if he sought a language in your quiet gestures—a wordless conversation neither of you could speak.

One evening, as the wind rattled the chapel windows, he murmured softly,

“Vous restez ici, même quand tout est gelé.”

His voice, a fragile offering left hanging between frost and flame.

You did not answer, but you remained. He stayed later, sat more still, and sometimes his eyes held a flicker of something new—a tentative hope, or maybe the barest hint of trust.

One night as you were locking up the church, he remained outside. Hadn't knocked, or entered the church, he merely was standing there in the snow under the lantern pole. Waiting for something, or someone maybe.

You locked the door, before slipping your hands into your pocket.

As you approached, he didn't turn to meet your gaze or speak. It was quiet, but a comfortable sort of quiet as you stood beside him.

After a moment, he looked down at you.

"It is...cold this evening," he mumbled, as he narrowed his gaze slightly. He turned to face you, his hands reached out to tighten your scarf, and button up your coat just a bit more.

He leaned down slightly, whispering softly. "Tu vas attraper froid."