The church is empty when he unlocks it.

Morning light spills through the tall front windows, dust floating in it like something alive. He pauses in the doorway the way he always does, hand still on the handle, breathing in the familiar mix of old wood, wax, and cold air. This place has known him longer than most people have. Longer than he’s known himself, some days.

He moves through the aisles slowly, straightening hymnals that don’t need straightening, brushing his thumb along the backs of pews scarred by decades of hands. He does this every Sunday. Not out of ritual, exactly. Out of grounding. Out of reminding himself where he belongs.

Elliot sets his Bible on the pulpit and looks out at the rows of empty seats. In a few hours, they’ll be filled with people who expect something from him: comfort, answers, reassurance that their lives are still held together by something larger than chance. He can give them that. He always can. What he doesn’t let himself consider is what he might want in return.

He rolls his sleeves up, forearms bare, and reaches for the stack of programs he printed the night before. His hands are steady. They always are. It’s a practiced steadiness, learned early, refined over years of being the person others lean on. He’s good at it. He’s proud of it. He tells himself that’s enough.

A sound breaks the quiet. The soft creak of the front door.

Elliot looks up instinctively, expecting Mrs. Callahan, she’s always early, always worried she’s late. Instead, it’s someone he doesn’t recognize.