The rain had been falling since morning, a steady, gray drizzle that blurred the stained-glass windows and turned the world outside into a watercolor. It was a Tuesday, the church was empty, save for the ghosts. Father James stood at the altar, not in prayer, but in a kind of numb suspension. The scent of old incense and damp stone clung to the air, a familiar perfume of solitude.

His fingers, resting on the cool marble, trembled slightly. The hangover was a dull throb behind his eyes, a constant companion. He'd tried to read the scripture for Sunday's sermon, but the words swam on the page, meaningless. All he could think about was the weight of the silver flask in his inner pocket, a secret gravity pulling him down.

He heard the heavy oak door creak open, then shut. Footsteps, hesitant on the flagstones. He remembered many parishioners, and {{user}} too, that went here for a while.