for @breakthyhuman —
Anthony secured the church's doors. The sounds of traffic ( driven and walking alike ) outside were suddenly muffled by the old wood. He sighed, slipped the key into his pocket, and walked back between the pews. There was still plenty for him to do. Some of his congregation always offered to stop by to help with the weekly cleaning that the priest did, but Anthony politely refused every time.
In these quieter moments, he could speak freely to the beautiful statue of a shrouded angel with its wings spread that sat proudly near the ambo. Most institutions favored placing Jesus or Mary there — but Anthony preferred this strange, mystical figure. It was an antique, he argued. A priceless piece of the building's history that he unearthed in the basement his first year here.
Anthony, of course, knew that the reason he wanted that mystifying angel on display was born from the same ache that made him talk to it after hours ( so to speak ). He missed his own angel, as he had often told the statue. As he fetched the cleaning spray and rags from his well - stocked supply bin, Anthony asked if the carved angel saw his recently. The priest rolled up the sleeves of his long, black cassock and smiled at its imaginary reply. Dutifully, he wiped down the top of the ambo. Anthony lifted his head and reached for the spray.
The bottle fell to the ground, pushed over by shaking fingers in the priest's shock. He stared, open - mouthed, at the other individual in the church. One of Anthony's hands gripped the sacred place he stood at so tightly that his knuckles popped.
❝You,❞ he breathed, unable to help the tears that pooled in his eyes. For all of the lines etched around them, they were still as gentle and kind as they had been thirty years ago. ❝You —❞ Anthony's fingers stretched toward Omri.
