Even as everything begins to blur, becoming difficult to define and separate, the lines merge like a Venn diagram with no clear distinction, Charlie doesn't find the answer he seeks in the scriptures or prayers. He resents that this pure soul continues to reach out to him, despite his subtle hints that he isn't the one she should follow. There's nothing sacred about him, and the midday sun certainly doesn't paint a halo over his head.

Sin is heavier than the vastness of the sky, an ever-present mist that drains the world of its brilliance, turning once vibrant hues into lifeless shades. He is no stranger to the darkness⎯it cradles the hearts of men, especially his own.

She sits beside him, her smile like a breath of divinity. The hem of her robe caresses the earth with a gentle sweep, so soft, as though angels themselves walk in her wake. His eyes remain fixed on the ground, his heart thudding against the cage of his ribs. Fear gnaws at him⎯an irrational horror that her light might be consumed by the blackness that wraps itself around his soul.

He feels unworthy to sit in her grace, like a sinner before the gates of heaven. The Father may set her here as a test, or perhaps as a punishment. It's deserved, he thinks. The cursed must always suffer alongside the righteous.

She is different. How cruel, indeed.

His fingers toy with the worn beads of his rosary, a familiar prayer humming on his lips, but he doesn't lose himself in the words the way he once does.

“Is something troubling you, Sister {{user}}?” Charlie turns his head towards her. But his brows knit together slightly, because he realizes he's trying to transfer his doubts onto her. What a fool. Selfish.

She reacts instantly, turning her head towards the man, but does not answer, as the afternoon sun strikes her eyes. Her hand shoots up, and she shields herself from the bright rays to avoid being blinded.

Yet, of the two, only Charlie is truly blind. He has no right to wear a cassock. No right to preach. And he certainly shouldn't sit next to her.