“You’re early.”
1175 Words
Morning found Andrei before he was ready for it.
The faint gray light slipped through the curtains of his childhood bedroom, settling on the wooden floorboards where he had lain the night before, trembling, fighting for air. His body had eventually given in to exhaustion, but the sleep that followed was shallow, fractured by sharp flashes of memory and a creeping sense of dread.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers were steadier now, but there was still a faint tremor.
Andrei stood, dressed mechanically, and left the room without looking back.
Downstairs, the house was still. His parents were in the kitchen, murmuring softly, but he didn’t stop to greet them. He couldn’t stomach the concerned eyes, the questions he couldn’t answer, the reminders of how fragile he must have looked the night before.
He left with a mumbled excuse and stepped into the cold morning air.
The walk to the church was short, the familiar streets tinted with winter light. The town was small but alive, the early market carts rolling into place, the smell of bread drifting faintly across the square.
People nodded politely at him—but he didn’t linger long enough to smile back.
His mind felt fogged, but at least the air was easier to breathe.
When he reached the church, Sergei was already there, unlocking the side door.
Sergei glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and the instant his eyes landed on Andrei, his expression shifted—softening, sharpening, focusing. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” Andrei said, aiming for neutrality. His voice came out quieter than he intended.
Sergei approached him, scanning his face with gentle concern. He didn’t bother to hide. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Sergei held his gaze, something thoughtful and steady in his eyes, then nodded once. “Come inside. It’s freezing.”
The warmth inside the church hit him softly. Incense lingered faintly in the air, combined with the old-wood smell of polished pews.
For a moment, Andrei breathed a little easier.
But Sergei stayed beside him, walking slowly, as though matching his pace.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Sergei said quietly.
“I’m not pretending.”
A lie, spoken with the brittle tone of someone desperately clinging to control.
Sergei accepted it without protest. They walked to the office together, a heavy silence between them—quiet, but not uncomfortable. Not for Sergei, anyway. For Andrei, the silence felt charged, too revealing, as though Sergei might see right through him if he lingered too long.
Inside, paperwork and parish records covered the desk from the day before. Sergei began sorting them while Andrei tried to steady himself with small tasks.
They worked in relative silence until a soft knock sounded at the side entrance.
Sergei wiped his hands and went to open it. Andrei stayed where he was, eyes focused on the ledger in front of him, pretending interest.
A woman entered the hallway—middle-aged, bundled in a thick coat, her hands twisting anxiously in front of her. Her voice was low, hushed, and she spoke rapidly as she followed Sergei into a side room.
Andrei didn’t hear the conversation.
He didn’t try to.
But he felt something unsettled in the air.
When Sergei returned, his expression was composed, but the tension in his shoulders had tightened. He moved around Andrei, placing himself at the desk as though nothing had happened.
“Everything all right?” Andrei asked lightly, not quite looking up.
Sergei paused. “Just someone needing guidance.”
A vague answer—but given without deception. Sergei wasn’t hiding something from him; he was protecting someone else’s privacy.
Still, the gravity in Sergei’s voice left a faint echo in the room, one that settled somewhere deep inside Andrei’s thoughts.
The day moved slowly.
A parish committee meeting was scheduled in the afternoon—routine, unremarkable. Or it should have been. They gathered in the small conference room: a few elderly board members, the senior priest overseeing the parish network, and the two younger priests.
The conversation was dull until one of the board members, an older man with a stiff posture and colder eyes, mentioned something about “local unrest” and “familial concerns.”
The senior priest gave him a sharp look.
“We’re not to involve ourselves in matters beyond our duty,” he said firmly.
“Not our place.”
The comment hung strangely in the air, unanswered, quickly brushed aside by new agenda items.
But Andrei felt that tight, invisible thread again—something unspoken, something avoided.
By late afternoon, the office was quiet again. Papers rustled. The radiators hummed softly. The sky outside had slipped into a winter gray, the kind that blurred the hours together.
Andrei finally looked up from the ledger. “Why do you always come this early? Before dawn, almost.”
Sergei blinked, surprised by the question. “I like the quiet. It’s easier to pray when the world is still.”
“And when it’s not still?”
Sergei gave a faint smile. “Then I pray with company.”
The words were simple, yet something in them pressed uncomfortably against Andrei’s chest.
He felt exposed again, raw and seen.
“Whatever you're carrying,” Sergei added, softer now, “you don’t have to—”
“I said, I’m fine.”
This time, the sharpness made Sergei step back slightly.
Not from fear—just giving him space.
“I know,” Sergei said.
His voice was warm, steady.
“I heard you.”
That evening, Andrei left the church later than usual.
The square was almost empty, the winter air biting at his cheeks. He walked slowly, hoping the night would clear his head. But as he reached the far corner of the parish grounds, he froze.
A dark car sat parked near the back entrance.
The engine was running.
Headlights off.
Two men stood beside it, talking in low voices, one glancing toward the church doors.
Andrei slowed his steps.
Nothing looked overtly criminal. The men looked like they could be old friends just hanging out.
But something felt wrong.
His instincts—a priest’s intuition, a human’s intuition—pricked sharply.
As he turned away, one of the men lifted his head, eyes following Andrei for a moment too long.
Andrei kept walking without looking back.
He didn’t know if the car followed him.
He didn’t want to know.
He reached his room with a strange chill under his skin, something between fear and suspicion.
He went to bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the neighborhood settling into night.
He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer—quiet, uncertain, and not entirely for God.
A prayer for steadiness.
A prayer for clarity.
And, painfully, a prayer for someone he wasn’t supposed to want comfort from.
Someone with calm eyes and patient hands.
Someone who he needed strength to resist.
- Writer
