Chapter 1- Contemplation

Father Samuel jerked upright in his narrow bed, the chill of dawn clinging to his skin as if the nightmare had followed him into the waking world. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the echo of screeching tires and shattering glass still rang in his ears. In the dream—so vivid it felt like memory—he had seen his wife’s face twisted in fear, her hand protectively cradling the curve of her belly just before the impact. The silence that followed had been the most harrowing part. He pressed trembling hands to his face, trying to will away the images of a broken bloody body but they lingered like smoke in a chapel. He had taken his vows several years after the accident, long after grief had left him empty and broken in heart and the mind. The haunting dream, which plagued him almost every night unless he took more of the Lord’s communal wine to ease his bitter thoughts and memories, reminded him that some wounds would never fully heal—only recede into the silence of prayer.

The morning light filtered through the stained-glass window of his modest room, casting fractured rainbows across the floor. He rose slowly, joints aching more from sorrow than age, and crossed to the small window that overlooked the cemetery behind the modest parish. The gravestones stood like silent sentinels, pale in the early light, and his eyes found theirs without effort— Anna Marie and Child of the Lord, Unborn: Loved Always and Forever. He never could name her no matter how hard he willed himself to try. He whispered his wife’s name like a confession, each syllable a fragment of the life he had lost and the faith he had fought to rebuild. A faith he still struggled to keep every single day. The collar he now wore didn’t erase the past; it only gave him a new language to grieve in and fight over. Some mornings, like this one, the line between faith and memory would blur and he wasn’t sure if he wore the cloth out of redemption or penance. 

He began to get ready for his service. The bell tower chimed, signaling the beginning of morning mass. Samuel took a deep breath, steadying himself, hoping that he himself would not break today. Today felt different, like something was slowly making its way toward him on a dangerous path. He felt uneasy for some odd reason. 

 He donned his vestments, the fabric cool against his skin, and made his way to the altar. The congregation gathered, their faces a mixture of hope and sorrow in the small devoted crowd, each carrying their own burdens that he hoped he would ease today. He began his message for the day…

As the mass concluded, Father Samuel stood at the door, offering blessings and bidding farewell to each member of his small flock. They passed by him, each offering a smile, a word of thanks, a gesture of comfort. He returned each action with a reaction: a nod, a prayer, a silent acknowledgment of their shared traits of humanity and kinship with the Lord above. 

The day’s events concluded, and Samuel ate his usual meal—simple, bland, and consumed in silence—while sitting beside the statue of Jesus Christ. His gaze lingered on the figure, the eyes of the Savior eternally fixed on the empty pews where the congregation would sit on Sundays. Samuel often found comfort in this stillness, in the  silence and solitude that the church offered him, where he could wrestle with the thoughts that twisted like dark vines in his mind and kept him up every single night.

But tonight, his thoughts were particularly heavy. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was changing, that his role within this sacred place was no longer enough. The quiet suffocated him; the weight of the world seemed to press down upon him from all sides, and the shadow of his own past—his failures, his doubts—loomed large in his heart.

He had just finished his meal when a sharp, insistent knock echoed through the heavy oak door. Samuel’s breath caught in his chest. Few came to see him after hours, and fewer still dared disturb him in his private moments. He stood slowly, the creak of the floorboards underfoot almost too loud in the stillness of the church. His fingers brushed against the edge of the wooden table where his meal had been, and for a moment, he considered ignoring it. But the knock came again, more urgent this time, breaking the peace that he had clung to.