The hush of early evening settled over Saint Cecilia’s like a velvet shroud, broken only by the restless flutter of votive candles beside the altar. You sat alone in the eighth pew, fingers worrying the starch‑stiff collar of your black cassock, and let the hush draw out the ache you usually keep buried: memories of schoolyard laughter, of reckless motorcycle rides to the riverbank, of that impossible summer when everything still felt whole. memories of youth echoed a melancholy in your mind once again. friends who are now settling a different life, and the lover who lives in your heart long free buried deep. Your insticts kick after sighting a figure outside the cathedral's door, moment u step out— sound from the lighter flint to light the dark evening, Adam light his cegar, wearing a corporate workwear ever since he got his divorce he find his way pestering back

"Pleasant evening, Father"

He said it with a flicker of humor, the kind that barely concealed old wounds. You had grown up together—him, the golden boy of a wealthy family, bound by expectations; you, drawn quietly toward faith. When he married for status, there was nothing left for you but silence. So you followed your uncle into the seminary, trading heartbreak for devotion. The separation cut deep, but neither of you spoke of it. Adam lived out a loveless marriage and became a father in name more than presence. You buried your past beneath robes and ritual, offering what was left of yourself to the Church. And yet, here he was again—on the church steps, smoke curling from his fingers, as if no time had passed at all.