The next night the air felt heavier, thicker with the scent of coming rain and the faint musk of old books and wax that clung to every corner of the rectory. The small stone building stood separate from the church proper, tucked behind the cloister wall, its windows dark except for the single lamp burning in the study.
I didn’t knock.
The door was unlocked—deliberately, I knew.
Father Elias was already waiting.
He stood near the hearth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cassock discarded over the back of a chair. The white Roman collar was gone too; in its place the open neck of a plain black shirt revealed the strong column of his throat and the faint shadow of hair across his chest. He looked less like a priest tonight and more like a man who had already decided what he would take.
The
