“Thank you, Father.”
1104 Words
The road always felt too narrow, as if the town itself resisted being entered. The houses—weatherworn, hunched together—seemed to lean inward, watching every car that passed with a quiet, suspicious curiosity.
Father Andrei Volkov kept his hands steady on the wheel as he turned onto the familiar main street. His pulse was less steady.
The town hadn’t changed. That was the unsettling part.
Same cracked sidewalks. Same shuttered storefronts. The same gulls circling lazily above the grey shoreline. The same scent of cold saltwater, iron, and something older—something he’d rather forget.
He parked outside the small parish house where he would be staying for the next several weeks. His father insisted.
His mother insisted harder.
“Family visits should be long,” she wrote. “You’re a priest—time is God’s to give.”
Andrei had not bothered arguing.
He knew she wanted him to stay home, but the thought of going into his room, his bed — terrified him. He knew that they were both aware of what had happened, of that disgusting thing he had let happen. Andrei couldn't go back, his room was a museum of all he had spent his life trying to bury.
Somehow his mother knew not to ask more of him than he could give.
Andrei had always been a bright boy, smart and incredibly charming. He was the kind of kid that was used in TV adverts; blue eyes, blonde hair, white slightly crooked teeth with dimples. Andrei was, in short, a "pretty boy." Throughout his childhood, he'd been called beautiful on multiple occasions. When he would go to the store with his mother, other women would stop her to compliment him, ruffle his hair and cheese about how he was going to become a "heart - breaker" some day.
As he stared at his reflection through the taxi, he could barely recognize himself. He hadn't really been sleeping, so faint bags appeared under his eyes. He had some stubble which he hadn't bothered to shave before he left, he looked drained and tired. At least he had an excuse if anybody asked — work. It wouldn't be a complete lie.
Most people thought that priests didn't do anything apart from sit in confession booths and listen to people's sins, which, again, was an important part of the job, but there was so much more to it — between organizing events, giving sermons, communions, encouraging members and intensive prayers, there wasn't much time left to oneself.
But, Andrei's look was not from work. It was from a can of worms that he had locked away but which followed him like a bad smell — clouding and haunting his days.
He was supposed to be stronger and better than that filth, not let it consume him and eat at the core of his soul till he remained but a shell of who he once was.
The taxi came to a halt as he quickly arranged his things and stepped out.
He closed the car door carefully—as if sound itself might wake the past.
The parish courtyard was empty except for a scattering of fallen pine needles and the quiet hum of morning. Andrei adjusted his coat, squared his shoulders, and headed toward the church entrance.
Halfway across the yard, the heavy wooden door opened.
A man stepped out.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
Black cassock crisp against the muted morning light.
His hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling across his forehead. His expression was warm, but not soft—more like a light set behind glass.
Father Sergei Rozanov.
The local parish priest.
Andrei had heard the name in passing but expected someone older. Less…visible.
Sergei paused when he saw him—just a moment—but enough for Andrei to notice a flicker of surprise. Or curiosity.
“You must be Father Volkov,” Sergei said, descending the steps. His voice was low, steady. Not overly friendly, not cold. Balanced.
Andrei nodded. “Andrei is fine.”
Sergei smiled faintly. “Then Sergei is fine.”
It should have been a simple exchange. But something about the way Sergei’s gaze lingered—quiet, thoughtful, assessing without being invasive—made Andrei’s chest tighten. He forced his eyes away.
Focus. Neutrality.
Sergei stepped closer, offering his hand.
Andrei hesitated a fraction too long before shaking it.
Warm.
Firm.
Steady.
Andrei pulled his hand back quickly, wiping the instinctive spark of awareness from his face. Sergei either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Your parents said you’d arrive today,” Sergei said. “They stopped by early to prepare your room—your mother brought pastries.”
Andrei’s jaw tightened. “She still does that?”
“She insisted,” Sergei said, amused, but gentled. “She seems very proud of you.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Andrei’s face. “She worries. That’s all.”
He immediately regretted saying it.
Too personal.
His voice hardened again: “Thank you for hosting me. I won’t disrupt anything.”
Sergei studied him for a quiet moment. “You’re not disrupting anything.”
Andrei offered a thin, restrained nod—the kind he’d perfected over years of hiding emotion behind courtesy. “I’ll settle in.”
“Of course,” Sergei said. “If you need anything, my door is always open. Literally. The lock sticks.”
Andrei almost smiled. Almost.
Sergei stepped aside for him to pass into the parish house.
Andrei brushed by, their sleeves barely grazing—a light, accidental touch that shouldn’t have meant anything.
But it sent a faint, unwelcome jolt through him.
He stiffened. Sergei noticed; Andrei could tell he noticed, because the priest’s expression changed—not with offense, but with a subtle, studying concern. The kind that made Andrei feel seen in a way he didn’t want.
He turned away sharply. “Thank you, Father.”
“As I said,” Sergei replied softly, “Sergei is fine.”
Andrei didn’t answer. He walked into the quiet hallway of the parish house and closed the door behind him.
Only then did he allow himself a breath—slow, deep, steadying.
The silence inside felt too intimate.
He rested a hand briefly against the wall, grounding himself.
Just a visit, he told himself.
Nothing more. It couldn't be.
But as he thought of Sergei’s calm eyes and the strange, unexpected warmth in them, a tension curled low in his chest.
The town had not changed.
But the man waiting outside on the church steps?
He was not something Andrei had prepared for.
- Writer
