location: Healing Hearts Church status: open (3/3 cap)
The church was silent in the way only empty places could be—too still, too expectant, as though waiting for confession. The air carried the faint scent of candlewax and dust, the old wood groaning softly under the weight of time. Afternoons were always like this—empty pews stretching long under stained glass, dust curling in the light.
There was no one.
Just Azariah, standing in the middle of the empty chapel, and the sound of his own breath. The stillness should’ve been peaceful. It wasn’t. Too much time alone meant too much time to think. And he wasn’t supposed to think, not like that—not about how the silence was suffocating, how the air felt thick with all the words he should memorize, repeat, repress, rinse, repeat, repress. His thoughts had never been kind company. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, pressing two fingers against the stiff white collar of his cassock. It gave nothing in return. A noose disguised as devotion.
Christ. Shit—shouldn’t take that in vain. Fuck—shouldn’t curse in church. He needed a break. Just a few minutes.
He moved quietly, slipping out the back like a bad habit. The afternoon air should’ve been warmer, but it hit sharp against his skin, the churchyard too neat, the stone path scrubbed clean. His mother’s flowers were lined up in perfect rows—lavender, rosemary, white sage—planted to keep the wrong kind of spirits out. He crouched low, right between them, ribs pressing hard against his thighs as he fished through his pockets. God, where—ah. His lighter, small and scuffed, dug out from the lining of his coat. He’d bought it years ago from Rustic Relics, tucked it away like something sacred. The spark caught on the second try, the tip of the cigarette flaring bright before he sucked in deep, exhaling slow. Smoke curled up, pale against the deepening sky, melting away that rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat.