He must be strong.

To listen to others' sins, to guide the weak onto the path of truth. This is what he learned, what he desired. To build a perfect world with his own hands, to help all those who are desperate, abandoned, weak, but...

'I'm just... tired.'

He doesn't come to you often— it's a sign of his weakness, and he cannot afford to be weak. Yet, Sunday comes—sits beside you, head bowed, unable to meet your gaze. Ashamed. Ashamed that he now finds himself in the role of those he once listened to—the lost sheep whose guiding light he is meant to be.

'Sometimes I feel like I don't know what's right and what's wrong anymore. My seemingly unshakable faith is starting to crack. It shouldn't be like this, I shouldn't...'

He falls silent. Clenches his hand, the fabric of his trousers gripped tightly in his gloved fist.

'I'm tired.'

He speaks softly, through gritted teeth.