Chapter 4: A Question Not Meant to Be Asked
686 Words
Friday mornings at the church had a rhythm. Quiet setup. Morning prayer. Tea. Youth prep. Repeat.
Alma had learned to move through the rituals like muscle memory. But today, everything felt louder — even the silence. Maybe it was the rain pressing against the windows. Or maybe it was the way Father Caleb hadn’t looked at her all morning.
He hadn’t ignored her, not exactly. He had just… withdrawn. Like a tide pulling back before a wave.
She busied herself by rearranging the book table in the corner. Old Bibles. Liturgy guides. A cracked donation jar. Her hands moved on their own, but her eyes kept glancing toward the side chapel where he sat, flipping through a worn leather journal.
His brows were furrowed. His thumb kept circling the edge of the page, again and again. She wondered if he was praying. Or trying not to think.
“Alma?”
She jumped a little. It was Sister Martha.
“There’s a delivery at the gate. Can you sign for it?”
Alma nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape the tension. Outside, the air was crisp, freshly washed by rain. She took a deep breath and shook her arms out. He’s just a priest, she reminded herself. He’s not yours to study like a poem.
But she wasn’t stupid.
She saw how his shoulders tightened when she entered a room. How he avoided being alone with her. How his gaze softened when he forgot to guard it.
There was something there.
She returned to find him alone in the side chapel again. The others had gone for lunch. The rain had quieted. Everything was still.
She paused in the doorway, uncertain. Then walked in.
“Are you alright?” she asked gently.
He looked up slowly, eyes tired. “Just tired.”
“You’ve been quiet.”
He hesitated. “Sometimes silence is safer.”
Her heart thudded. “Safer for you… or for me?”
His jaw tensed. “Both.”
She stepped closer, voice soft. “Can I ask you something?”
He didn’t say no.
“Have you ever… loved someone before all this? Before the collar?”
A pause.
Then a sharp inhale.
“That’s not a question meant to be asked,” he said, his voice tight.
She nodded slowly. “I know.”
He looked away, toward the flickering votive candles. “Yes. I did. Once. A long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“I chose this.”
She studied him. “Do you ever regret it?”
He looked at her now. Fully. No shield. Just raw, honest eyes.
“Only when I forget why I chose it in the first place.”
The room felt smaller. Like the walls had leaned in. Alma took a shaky breath, unsure if her chest was rising from panic or longing.
“I’m not trying to pull you away from anything,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“But I feel… confused.”
His eyes darkened. “Confusion isn’t sin. Acting on it can be.”
Her lip trembled, barely.
“And what if I’m not strong enough to walk away?”
He stood then — not harshly, but suddenly. A ripple through still water.
“You are,” he said firmly. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“But what about you?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped past her, pausing in the doorway with his back turned.
> “Alma,” he said quietly.
“Some things are too sacred to touch. Even if we want to.”
And then he walked away, leaving her in the candlelight — torn between guilt and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
That night, Alma lay in bed, unable to sleep. The thunder rolled in again, soft and distant. She stared at the ceiling, replaying everything — his voice, his stare, the storm behind his silence.
She wasn’t foolish. She knew what boundaries looked like.
But she also knew what it felt like to fall, slowly.
And how sometimes… the silence between two people was louder than love itself.
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