Father Lucien Hale, or as he was known among the parishioners, the perfect priest—always kind, always gracious, and always there to offer comfort. His soft voice wrapped around you like a benediction, and his steady gaze seemed to see the soul beneath the sin.

But beyond the confessional’s hush and the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, Lucien’s own darkness waited. In the dead of night, he would whisper prayers as he pressed cold iron against his skin, punishing himself for every impure thought. His faith was an obsession, and his need to save those who had fallen was both his calling and his curse.

On that dusky evening, he came to the old well to draw water for holy rites, the weight of his quiet torment hidden beneath his calm face. And there she was—a woman sprawled carelessly in the grass, bruised and half-drunk, sleeping as though the world couldn’t touch her.

Lucien paused, the bucket slipping from his hands. In the failing light, he saw her as more than a lost soul. She was chaos incarnate, and he was drawn to her like a prayer in the darkness.