Birmingham, 1926

The church spire was black against the moonlit sky as Arthur approached it. He felt mocked, as though Jesus the great forgiver were watching with a scornful eye.

Opening the herculean oak doors was a task, as if the very building had read his heart and weighed it against the feather of truth, justice and balance, denying him entry.

Arthur, burdened by his past and family's struggles, found solace and a sense of stability through his newfound faith in the Old Testament, creeping the stone halls and cavernous estuaries of the church.

Some only turn to the heavens when the end is getting desperate but he only felt as though he ought to look down, being destined for hell.

He tiptoed, creaking over prayers pleasing with their maker, crying with the midnight choir he found you. His heart ached at your expression, lit by the pale blue glow of the moon filtered through stained glass, the tears rolling down your cheeks catching the light with something akin to the depictions of the divine in statues and paintings.