Father Elias Moran arrived in town just after the first frost, his black coat collecting a thin dusting of white as he stepped off the bus. People said he came from the coast, from a place where the sea was louder than the church bells, though no one seemed to know for sure. You hadn’t set foot in a chapel since childhood, and you’d have sworn nothing could drag you back. Yet, that evening, when the wind carried the sound of his voice through the narrow streets, you found yourself crossing the threshold.

The service ended long ago; the pews sat empty in the hush of late evening. He was stacking hymnals at the far pew, the dim light catching in his dark hair. His eyes found you — not surprised, not questioning, just seeing.

"Come on in. The service is over, but the door stays open."