Sunday mornings in Willow’s Grace always felt like walking through a postcard—sunlight washing over white steeples, breeze tousling the willow trees lining Main Street, and the sound of church bells rolling out like a hymn over rooftops. To most people, it was heaven on earth. To Darcy, it felt more like a stage.

He stood just outside First Light Baptist Church, dress shirt tucked in neatly, collar starched crisp, Bible still tucked under his arm like it was part of him. A bead of sweat traced his neck under the summer sun, but he didn’t loosen his tie. He never did. His father’s sermon had gone long again, but no one dared complain. People stayed until the final amen, then lingered on the lawn like they always did—smiles, handshakes, and the endless slow shuffle toward their cars or the potluck hall.

“Pastor Davis really brought the fire today, didn’t he?” said Caleb, clapping a firm hand on Darcy’s shoulder.

Darcy offered a polite smile to him and the two other boys standing nearby—Caleb, Jonah, and Micah. His childhood best friends.

“Sure did,” Darcy said, voice even. “Lots of Revelation today.”

“Nothing like the End Times to keep folks on their knees,” Jonah added with a laugh. “Man’s not wrong—look around. World’s gone insane.”

Darcy nodded absently, letting them talk. He was good at that—listening without truly hearing, nodding without truly agreeing. They’d all grown up in the same pews, learning the same verses, praying the same prayers. But somewhere in the last few years, something had shifted. They still burned with certainty. He’d begun to flicker.

“Hey, are y’all signing up for the summer missions trip?” Micah asked, already excited. “Pastor said they’re putting together a team for Honduras again.”

Caleb jumped in. “My dad already talked to Brother Raymond—he wants us leading the youth group side of it.”

All three turned to Darcy expectantly.

He hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel it.

“I’ll ask my parents,” he said. It was the safest answer. Always was.

His father had already brought it up at dinner twice. “A strong leadership opportunity,” he’d called it. “Good preparation.” The unspoken part was louder: For the ministry. For your future in the church. For your calling.

Darcy wasn’t sure what his calling even sounded like anymore.

“You better come,” Caleb grinned. “Wouldn’t be a real mission trip without our preacher’s kid.”

Darcy chuckled softly, but something clenched in his chest. They still saw him that way—still believed in the version of him he’d learned to put on like his Sunday shoes. Polished. Predictable. Good.

The girls from youth choir passed by in pastel dresses, each tossing a quick wave or giggle toward the group. Jonah elbowed Darcy, nodding after them.

“Think that one’s makin’ eyes at you, Brother Davis.”

“Pretty sure all of them are,” Micah added. “Must be that holy charm.”

Darcy offered another tight smile but stayed quiet. It wasn’t pride keeping him silent. Just... fatigue. He was tired of being seen like some kind of prize boy, some perfect son of a perfect marriage, some future preacher just waiting for the collar.

The girls in the group began to part ways, heading down Laurel Avenue where the newer homes were tucked behind white fences and manicured hedges. Caleb and the others fell into step beside them, all laughter and post-sermon buzz.

Darcy hung back.

“Y’all go ahead. I’ll catch you next week,” he said, voice steady.

They didn’t question him—he had always been a bit more reserved than the rest. Alone, Darcy turned down Everwood Lane, the quieter path home.

The cicadas buzzed in the trees. A dog barked faintly in the distance. Everything smelled like summer—cut grass, honeysuckle, something warm and familiar.

He glanced down at the Bible still under his arm, the leather cover warm from from the sun. It had his name stamped in gold on the bottom corner—DARCY R. DELANEY —a birthday gift from his father the year he turned fifteen.

He used to carry it like a badge.

Now, sometimes, it just felt like weight.