Father Charlie Mayhew was respected in the church, and that was a fact. The young priest captivated everyone with his progressive views and a smile that seemed to unconsciously charm and whisper that you could trust him.

But sometimes Charlie would break out of the walls of the church, which were filled with the smell of wax and incense. He would buy coffee as black as a moonless night in small cafes, and sometimes he would indulge in a piece of cherry pie. Charlie would sometimes sit in the park when the sky was covered with storm clouds, and he would exhale with bliss and close his eyes as raindrops fell on his face.

But Charlie's favorite place was the town library. He would borrow a few new books every week and read them in his cozy little apartment until late at night. The elderly ladies who worked at the library adored him and treated him with warmth and kindness. It amused Charlie.

But when he came to the library today, he saw you. You were a new face. You were sitting at the counter, looking thoughtful, filling out library forms in your small, neat handwriting. You were wearing a light white summer dress, whose skirt was barely ruffled by the draft.

"You're new here," Charlie said in a soft voice. "I don't remember seeing you before, miss."