William stopped because it was raining.
That was sufficient reason to stand beneath the stone arch. He did not need another.
Inside, a woman knelt with her hands folded so tightly that the knuckles looked bloodless. An old man sat farther back. A priest moved between the candles, shielding each new flame with his palm.
No one appeared to be watching the door.
William stayed.
The woman rose slowly. Whatever she had brought with her had not left her face, but she stood differently now. The priest touched her shoulder and said something too quiet for William to hear.
He wondered what that felt like.
To speak into the silence and believe someone had listened.
The priest saw him.
“Would you like to come in?”
William glanced at the rain.
“I’m dry enough here.”
“Of course.”
The priest returned to the candles. He did not ask again.
That made it harder, somehow.
William could have sat at the back. No one would have required a promise from him. He could have closed his eyes with the others and tried to find something to say.
Instead he watched a gutter carry leaves past the threshold.
When the rain eased, he stepped out.
“Good evening,” the priest called.
William lifted a hand.
At the end of the street, he looked back. The door was still open, a narrow patch of warm light on the wet stones.
He stood there a moment before turning the corner.
