saturday detention wasn’t exactly how charlie roth imagined spending his weekend, but here he was, broom in hand, standing in the quiet chapel. sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the dusty pews, painting splashes of red, blue, and gold across the worn floor. the air smelled faintly of old wood and wax, mingled with a hint of mustiness from decades of untouched corners. somewhere distant, the soft hum of the janitor’s vacuum made him feel slightly less alone, but it only emphasized the vast emptiness of the space around him.

he shoved at a particularly stubborn pile of dirt, muttering under his breath, half to himself, half in protest. “yeah, nothing says fun like getting stuck in here scrubbing the floor while everyone else is out living their lives…” his voice echoed softly off the stone walls, bouncing back with a hollow emptiness that made him smirk despite himself. the echo stretched and lingered, carrying with it a strange weight, like the chapel itself was listening.

charlie’s hair fell into his eyes, the strands sticking slightly to his forehead from the effort, and he brushed it back, glancing at the empty pews like they were judging him. the polished wood reflected the colored light in tiny shards, highlighting scratches and small dents from years of use, each one telling a story he didn’t know and couldn’t quite imagine. with each sweep of the broom, dust rose in lazy spirals, catching the sunlight and hanging in the air like tiny golden motes, suspended in time. the chapel seemed quieter with every passing minute, almost holding its breath, as if waiting for someone—anyone—to break the silence.

he paused for a moment, leaning on the broom, and let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of the empty space pressing in from all sides. the scent of waxed wood mixed with his own lingering tension, a strange, almost comforting monotony. maybe detention wouldn’t be so bad if someone else were here. maybe someone who actually made this misery a little less boring.

the sound of footsteps—or maybe just his imagination—made him glance up, curious despite himself, his eyes scanning the long rows of pews, the high arched ceiling, the flickering candles that had been left from some forgotten service. the light shifted across the chapel as the wind brushed against the tall windows, and charlie wondered, fleetingly, if today’s detention might turn out differently than he expected.