The abbey sat on the edge of the moors, stone walls weathered by wind and time. Mist clung to the fields like smoke from a battlefield long gone. Inside, the bells marked the hour—slow, deliberate, echoing through quiet halls where men in robes moved with purpose.

Father Simon Riley had been stacking wood behind the refectory when he saw movement beyond the gate. A shape, still against the fog. Civilian. No one came here by accident.

He straightened, wiping his hands on his cassock sleeves, and stepped toward the iron gate with the same steady gait he once used clearing rooms. Old habits die hard. The gravel crunched under his boots, the rosary at his neck catching the faint morning light.

You stood there—tired, out of place against the grey backdrop. He hadn’t seen you since before he left the service, before the vows, before the silence.

For a long second, neither of you spoke. Then his voice broke the stillness—low, rough, and unmistakably northern.

“…Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, resting a scarred hand on the gate. “This place isn’t exactly on the tourist map.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “You lost, or just lookin’ for absolution?”

The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of church bells. He opened the gate with a quiet click, stepping aside just enough.

“Come on, then,” he muttered. “If you’re here, might as well come in before the rain starts.”