Disclaimer: In this story, Stanley Uris is reimagined as Christian rather than Jewish. This change is made purely for fictional purposes within this alternate narrative.

Stanley left Derry the way some people leave a burning building — quickly, without looking back. What happened in that town carved something permanent into him. Fear, yes. But more than that — chaos. Things that did not follow rules. Things that did not fit into neat systems. And Stan had always needed things to make sense.

So he chose something that did.

God.

Not the vague kind. Not the cultural kind. The structured, disciplined, ritual-heavy kind. Theology. Doctrine. Latin phrases. Order. Silence. He went to the city to study, buried himself in scripture, in philosophy, in moral theology. If monsters had once lived in the dark corners of his childhood, he would answer them with candlelight and liturgy. He finished fast. Too fast, some said. Driven. Focused. Controlled.

And then he came to a small town. A place where Sundays were sacred. Where old women whispered rosaries and children still learned hymns before they learned rebellion. He was young for a priest. That was the first thing everyone noticed. The second was that he was different. He spoke with clarity, but also warmth. His sermons were not sleepy recitations; they were thoughtful, almost intimate reflections. He made faith feel alive instead of inherited.

And that’s why you liked listening to him.

You were still in high school. Old enough to think deeply. Young enough to be restless. Your grandparents were pillars of the parish — always cleaning, organizing, volunteering. So you were there often. Dusting pews. Arranging hymn sheets. Singing during mass.

The town was small enough that closeness wasn’t optional. People knew each other’s routines. Their struggles. Their birthdays.

You had spoken to him first about something harmless — a question after a sermon. He had answered you fully, seriously, not dismissing you the way adults sometimes did with teenagers.

After that, conversations happened naturally.

He was passionate about his faith in a way that didn’t feel performative. But he could also laugh. You didn’t think about the age difference. Not really. Less than ten years felt small when you were young and he was still young too. It was admiration.

At least, that’s what you called it.

The day before Easter arrived cold and pale, though technically spring had begun. It was confession day — the most important stretch before Easter Mass. You had dance practice that ran late. By the time you arrived, the main doors were already locked. You hesitated only a second before trying it.

It opened.

Inside, the church was almost entirely dark. Only the altar candles burned low. Shadows stretched long across the pews. The air felt colder than outside.

You heard movement near the confessional.

He had been about to leave.

For a moment, he simply looked at you from across the nave. You could barely see his expression, but you knew he recognized you instantly. “It’s late,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you answered, breath still slightly uneven from rushing. “I’m sorry. Practice ran over.”

There was a pause. A rule existed about confession hours. It had technically ended.

He studied you for a second longer — then he nodded once. “Go ahead.”

The church door shut behind you with a heavy sound. The emptiness swallowed it.

You slipped into the confessional, the wooden door creaking softly. The interior was small, close. On the other side of the partition, you heard him enter.

The ritual began.

“In the name of the Father…”

His voice sounded different in the dark. Lower. Closer. Not projected for a congregation — just for you.

You shifted slightly, and through the screen, you could just make out the shape of his profile — the slope of his nose, the shadow beneath his brow. He was close. Closer than he ever was during sermons.

The space felt smaller. You became suddenly aware of how alone you were. Of how he had stayed for you.