Dark clouds parted to expose the sun, still weak and waning in its brightness. The pale rays caught the window of the Cathedral and illuminated the myriad of pigments upon the stained glass, casting a rainbow on the bare stone floor.

The shadows of Father Francis Chisholm stood tall and long, warping against the rivets and contours of cobblestone. It was silent inside, save for the occasional whisper of a candle or tick, tick, tick of a clock. Francis sat in a pew, praying.

The shadows of the priest's eyelashes imitated spider webs on his pale, clean-shaven cheeks, one single lock of hair falling loose from his carefully-styled 'do.