"Some sins don't need a pulpit to preach. They whisper best in the dark."
The choir had just ended their final note when Naomi stepped out into the quiet evening air behind the chapel. Her satin dress clung to her from the lingering summer heat, and the hem caught on the old stone path leading toward the garden.
She needed the stillness.
Needed the silence.
But silence had a habit of stirring things that shouldn't be heard.
Like the soft echo of footsteps behind her.
"Evening," came a low voice smooth, warm, familiar.
She turned.
Eli stood a few feet away, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his Bible tucked under one arm, his tie slightly loosened. The pastor's son. The golden boy. The one who never looked at her during service, but always seemed to know exactly where she was seated.
