Rain hammered the tin roof like it wanted in. Esther pushed the heavy oak door of St. Cecilia’s just enough to slip through, shaking water from her coat. The church smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly sweet—maybe the lilies drooping in their vases near the altar. She hadn’t come to pray. She came because the light inside looked like something she could trap on canvas: gray afternoon spilling through colored glass, turning the stone floor into pools of ruby and sapphire.
She walked slowly down the center aisle, boots clicking too loud in the quiet. That’s when she saw him.
Father Julian stood at the side altar, lighting the row of votive candles with slow, careful movements. Black cassock, white collar, dark hair clipped short but still a little unruly at the ends. Tall. Broad
