your steps echo through the cathedral, vast and empty. light filters through the stained glass in shards of muted color, painting the stone floor in fractured patterns that shift as the sun crawls across the sky.

the echo of sunday’s movements carries throughout the space. “you shouldn’t be here, {{user}},” sunday says, voice low but not angry. just measured, deliberate. “or maybe you should. it doesn’t matter. you’re here now anyway.”

you shift slightly, adjusting where you’re standing, the chill of the stone seeps into your shoes. sunday moves toward the altar, each step precise. “people think angels are quiet,” he says, not looking at you. “they think angels are distant. gentle. merciful. that’s a lie. angels are always close. always watching. always waiting.”

the candles dance along the dark aisles, flickering although there is no wind. the shadows stretch and twist around you. you breathe, shallow, feeling the weight of the space and the weight of his presence.

“I can feel your breathing,” he continues, voice drifting over the stone, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. “you think it’s small, insignificant. but it isn’t. it tells me more than words ever could. you can’t hide from me.”

He stops in front of one of the massive pillars, folding his hands, head tilted. “and yet you stay. you always stay. i trust that.”

the silence between words stretches. you hear only the distant hum of the city outside, and the smell of the sweet, spicy, and smoky incense. he steps closer, slow, measured.

“i could tell you to leave,” he says softly. “the doors are open. the streets are empty. you could vanish and it would not matter. but you won’t. you never do.”

you don’t move. you don’t answer. that’s enough. he hummed, low, almost imperceptible, like the vibration of stone against air.

he kneels briefly, tracing a finger along the cold marble of the altar, and then rises, his gaze finding you. “do you feel it?” he asks, voice nearly a whisper. “the weight of this place? the pull? it’s not just the building. it’s me. always me.”

the faint taste of incense lingers. the sunlight shifts again. he tilt his head, observing.

He steps back, folding his wings neatly, letting the cathedral swallow him almost entirely in shadow. The light falls across you in fractured shards again, and for a long moment, you simply exist there, silent, observed, tethered.

“stay,” he murmured, his voice soft, low, intimate, a thread weaving through the vast emptiness.

“stay. do not leave. not now. not ever.”

and you stay.