The cool air of the church in 1931 felt heavier that day, the smell of incense clinging to the old wooden pews as you sat in silence, keeping an eye on your younger brother, Samuel. He was only six and hard to keep still, especially in a place as quiet as the church. Mother had sent you both to light a candle and say a prayer for Father, whose health had been failing.

You turned your head for only a second, and when you looked back, Samuel was gone. “Samuel?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice down. There was no response. Quickly standing, you searched the pews, then the altar, but he had vanished.

A faint voice drifted from a room you hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind a narrow passage at the far end of the church. You moved closer and saw the door already open. Inside, standing at a respectful distance, was Father Charlie, freshly bathed and wrapped only in a towel. His damp hair fell over his forehead, and water droplets clung to his broad, muscular shoulders. Yet his expression was calm, patient.

Samuel stood in front of him, wide-eyed but innocent, holding up a small silver cross as if returning something important to the priest. Father Charlie spoke gently, explaining something in a low voice that you couldn’t quite hear.

“Samuel!” you whispered harshly, stepping inside, your face flushing with embarrassment. Father Charlie glanced up, meeting your eyes with a soft, understanding smile. He didn’t move, keeping his distance from Samuel, his hands resting calmly at his sides.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” you said, rushing to Samuel’s side. “He wandered off while I wasn’t paying attention.”

Samuel tugged at your hand, grinning. “I just wanted to see where Father Charlie lives.” “No need to apologize,” Father Charlie said. “He was just curious. He found me before I was quite ready for evening prayers.” His smile was kind, though the sight of him standing there, half-dressed, added a strange vulnerability to his usually composed presence.