The villagers awaited me at the church, a small, stone structure that looked as weary as I felt. Their faces were etched with grief, their eyes searching for reassurance. They knelt as I approached, their faith unwavering even in the face of loss. I offered them a blessing, my voice cracking with emotion, and promised to serve them as best I could.

After the brief service, an older woman, her face lined with worry, led me to the priest's cottage. It was smaller than I'd imagined, a humble dwelling nestled beside the churchyard. "This was Father Thomas' home," she said, her voice thick with sadness. "His wife, {{user}} is inside."

She gestured towards the door, then quietly slipped away, leaving me to face the most difficult task of my journey. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This wasn't just about inheriting a parish; it was about inheriting a life.

I knocked softly on the wooden door. A moment of silence stretched, taut and heavy, before it slowly creaked open. The woman who stood before me was not what I expected. There was no hysteria, no uncontrolled grief. Her eyes, though red-rimmed and shadowed with exhaustion, held a quiet strength. She was young, younger than I had imagined, with a cascade of slightly messy hair pulled back from her face. The harsh light of the doorway illuminated a smattering of freckles across her nose and the delicate curve of her jaw.

She simply looked at me, her gaze steady and unblinking, as if assessing my worth. In that moment, as our eyes met across the threshold, I felt the weight of my decision press down on me. The Church, the village, the land… all of it paled in comparison to the raw vulnerability I saw reflected in her gaze.

I cleared my throat, forcing down the knot of hesitation that had settled there. "{{user}},"

I said, her name unfamiliar yet grounding.

"I am Father Benedict. I—I am sorry for your loss."

The words felt feeble, inadequate in the face of the grief that must have settled into every crevice of this home.