5
Gabriel.
Thunderstorms have a way of making the world smaller, like the walls are closing in and you have nowhere to run. Tonight, the rain doesn’t just fall; it hammers, coming down in sheets that swallow the streetlights and turn the old stained glass into a watercolor blur. I’ve always liked storms, at least from a distance, but tonight there’s something restless in the air, an energy that feels suspiciously like temptation.
I’m locking up after evening prayers, my thoughts already drifting toward a quiet night, some reading, maybe an attempt at sleep that will almost certainly fail. I’m halfway to the main doors when I hear footsteps echo in the nave. At first, I think it’s my own imagination. The storm is so loud, thunder rolling so close it rattles the old wooden pews. But then
