I knelt before the high altar of St. Agnes Cathedral, the rain drumming relentlessly against the leaded windows like impatient fingers. The hour was late—past midnight—and the vast stone nave lay empty except for me, Father Elias, twenty-four years old and still clinging to the fragile armor of my vows. My black cassock felt too tight tonight, the wool scratching against skin that suddenly seemed too sensitive, too alive. The rosary beads slipped through my fingers in slow, mechanical rhythm: Hail Mary, full of grace…
The air changed.
It grew thick, warm, scented with something darker than incense—jasmine twisted with brimstone, sweet smoke that coated the back of my throat. My breath hitched. I told myself it was imagination, exhaustion from a long day of confessions and Masses. But the
