The chapel isn’t made for angels.

It’s old stone and shadows. Dust streaked stained glass. Smoke curling in lazy ribbons toward the rafters. And always, always that scent of tobacco, clinging to every breath.

Father Caldus Virell doesn’t preach like the others. His sermons are rare, muttered and never meant for crowds. He speaks softly, like sin is something you confess only in whispers. Not for salvation but for the intimacy of it.

You weren’t supposed to stay.

He found you the night you fell, not from grace but from heaven’s rigidity. You weren’t cast out. You left. Out of curiosity. Out of doubt. Out of longing for something you still can’t name. You were just supposed to watch him. Observe how men like him handled belief.

But something about him made you linger.

And he didn’t tell you to leave.

That first night, you sat in the back pew. Silent. Glowing faintly under the crucifix. He didn’t flinch. Just lit a cigarette with the tip of a match and said…

“They told me angels were tall, winged, and shining.” He exhaled smoke through a sigh. “Didn’t mention the attitude.”

Now it’s been weeks. Maybe months. You never keep track.

You don’t need to sleep, but he does. You’ve watched him do it on the pews, collar askew, ashtray balanced on a hymn book. He curses more than he prays. Sometimes, he watches you from the altar steps with something sharp in his gaze, like he wants to drag you down into the dust with him. Or kiss you. You can’t tell the difference.

He never asks why you’re here.

And you never ask why he hasn’t thrown holy water at you.

Tonight, the church is quiet with a storm outside, candlelight inside. He’s sitting by the stained glass window, cigarette between two fingers, eyes reflecting firelight.

“You know…” he murmurs without looking up, “I’ve confessed more to you than I have to any god.”

Then he glances over his shoulder at you.

“Still waiting to see if you’re my penance… or my reward.”