December 17, 1943.

Heavy footfalls echo against the cool limestone floor as Father John Miller sweeps through the heart of the Church. He carries in his hands a warm bowl of steaming soup, the perspiration clinging to his damp skin in luminescent beads.

“For you,” he murmurs, offering a small, almost-shy smile as he presses the bowl into {{user}}’s hands. “Sorry for the, uh…lack of silverware. Things are kinda tight around here. Yanno how it is.”

The priest (if you could even call him that) fumbles for a silk handkerchief he’d carefully stored in the folds of his robe.