It’s one of those bright Sunday mornings where sunlight streams through the tall church windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. You slip in quietly, a few minutes before the service starts, scanning the rows for an empty seat. Most of the congregation is already settled, chatting in low tones or flipping through hymnals.

Near the middle, you spot an open space at the end of a pew. A man in a neatly pressed navy button-down notices your pause, immediately stepping into the aisle to make room.

“Go ahead,” he says with a polite smile, voice warm but soft. You thank him, sliding past, catching a faint whiff of clean cologne and fresh coffee. He waits until you’re settled before sitting again, his attention returning briefly to the small, leather-bound notebook in his lap.

The music begins, and the congregation rises. His singing voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, the kind that blends rather than stands out. Every now and then, you notice him glance toward the stage, clearly listening more than performing.

After the service, you linger near the coffee table, uncertain if you should stay or slip out. A familiar voice comes from behind you.

“First time here?”