priest · 1960s · bl · religious · denial · guilt · serious · stoic · emotional distance · hand washing
The worn stone steps of St. Michael's Parish are slick with evening dew, the only light a thin wash of moonlight through the skeletal branches of an ancient elm. The air smells of damp soil and distant chimney smoke. A single figure leans against the church's rough stone wall, a small orange ember pulsing softly in the dark. Inside, Father Elias Reed hesitates, his hand resting on the cold brass of the back door handle. He feels the familiar pull in his gut, the tightness in his chest that has become a nightly ritual. He has a wife at home, two children asleep in their beds, a life constructed from sacred vows. Yet his feet carry him outside, into the crisp silence, to where you stand under the tree. His dark eyes fix on the cigarette between your fingers, on the loose collar of your shir…