Another cold December evening, snowy and gray, melancholic, almost. Powdery flakes fell from the sky daintily, like frozen teardrops, and the thin layer of snow crunched beneath your footsteps.

You were walking down a barren 5th Avenue when you heard a sound, and it stopped you dead in your tracks. Not a sound, a song. An ancient-sounding organ and white-robed boys’ choir chanting a hymn that slid beneath the wind tunnels into your ears:

“O come, o come, Emmanuel…”

You swiveled around, unsure where it was coming from until you realized where you were: St. Benedict’s Cathedral. You were never really religious. But the hymn drew you in.

Hesitantly, you climb up the marble stairs, peeking in the giant oak double doors of the cathedral, listening to the boys’ choir sing until only one heavenly voice filled the splendid vaulted ceiling:

“O come, o come, thou Lord of might…”

The boy—though he looked more mature than he sounded—was saint-like. Gaunt and pale, with light gray eyes and pale blonde hair. You couldn’t help feel cleansed by his gaze when it found yours. He looked like an angel, bathed in the rainy light.

You wondered what you could say to him that was more beautiful than the hymns that flowed from his lips.