The church was empty.
It wasn’t the hollow emptiness of neglect but the kind born of reverence — the stillness that came when the day’s worshippers had gone home, and only the echo of their prayers lingered in the air. The heavy wooden doors were shut, their bolts drawn. Candle flames guttered in iron holders along the side walls, and the scent of old incense clung to the air like a ghost.
A hush pressed down like velvet, thick and solemn. Even the ticking of the old brass clock near the sacristy seemed to muffle itself in deference to the sanctity of the space. Stained glass windows — Christ in crimson robes, the Virgin’s gaze cast downward in sorrow — shimmered in the soft sigh of twilight. Gold and red hues bled across the pews like spilled wine, painting the space in colors that felt
