Chapter Text
The heavy wooden doors of St. Paul's creaked open, admitting a shaft of late-morning sun that danced across the stone floor in motes of gold and crimson from the stained-glass windows. They were images, depictions of Christ and archangels, beautiful renditions of battles, lambs, and the kindness Christ showed as he walked the earth. A boy trotted in, his small shoes echoing in eager hurriedness, practically bouncing with each step.
He didn’t run straight to his father, who knelt alone before the altar rail, head bowed in the familiar posture of prayer that had become both refuge and routine. Instead, the boy veered toward the front pews where the older women, mostly nuns, gathered after the 8 o’clock Mass.
“Oh, my little dove!” Sister Miriam’s voice carried soft and delighted across the nave. She'd been the first to notice the small boy. She leaned down from her seat, thin hands reaching out. Her habit was faded at the cuffs from years of washing altar linens and cradling children, but her eyes still shone with the same bright kindness Abel knew from years of knowing her. “How was school today, sweetheart?”
Abel stopped in front of her, beaming. “Amazing, Sister! We went outside for-” He frowned, counting on chubby fingers. He went through all ten of them, holding them up for her to see, “This many minutes! And we always go for,” He dropped one hand, putting emphasis on the one he kept up,“This many. Miss Evangeline said I was the best at spotting birds.. as usual,” he cheekily added.
“Really? The best?” Miriam laughed, a low, warm sound that had soothed more than one grieving parishioner over the decades. “Such a good boy. Your papa must be so proud.” She reached into the wicker basket on her lap—the same basket she’d carried since before Abel was even born—and pulled out a golden pastry wrapped in waxed paper. “For the best bird-spotter in the town.”
Abel’s eyes went wide. He accepted it reverently, then took a huge bite. Honey and clove melted across his tongue; he closed his eyes and made a small, blissful sound. “Mmmm. Thank you, Sister.”
A quiet, soft voice came from behind him. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, dove. It’s rude.” Though chiding, the tone carried a distinct warmth.
Abel whirled, crumbs clinging to his lips and chin. “Papa!” He swallowed hastily, raised both arms—pastry still clutched in one fist—and launched himself towards the man.
Joseph caught him easily, the motion practiced and automatic. He lifted Abel high for a moment, then settled the boy against his hip, one arm secure around his waist. Abel immediately offered the half-eaten bun. “Bite, Papa?”
Joseph laughed. It was.. soft, quiet. He leaned in and took a small piece, chewing slowly. The flavor barely registered anymore, grief had dulled taste, appetite, and most other things to a dull gray since Mary died two springs ago. Yet he took the bite anyway. It seemed rude to refuse what was given with such love. “Delicious,” he said, eyes crinkling, his crows feet carved deep from years of expressing his joy. “But you keep the rest. It’s yours, dove.”
“Nonsense,” Sister Miriam chided, already fishing out another from the basket. She pressed it into Joseph’s free hand with gentle insistence. “You’re thinner every time I see you, Father. You need to stay strong for this one.” Her gaze softened as she looked between them. “Mary would have my hide if I let you waste away.”
Joseph’s throat tightened at the name. Mary—his Mary—had been the parish’s unofficial heart before fever took her. Sister Miriam had sat with her through the final weeks, holding her hand when Joseph couldn’t bear to leave Abel alone. And took care of Abel through the first months of his sadness. The sister had never once spoken of Joseph’s grief as weakness; she simply brought food, prayed, and loved Abel like her own.
“Thank you, Sister,” he said quietly, meaning far more than the pastry. He took a bite, letting the sweetness linger even if he couldn’t fully taste it. “It means a lot.”
Miriam placed a hand on his arm—light, steady. “You’re doing good work here, Joseph. Raising him alone, tending the flock… it’s no small thing. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. We’re here.. me, Father Michael, young Luca, Elena and the others.” It’d been said to him a thousand times over.
Joseph nodded, swallowing past the ache. He didn't have much of an appetite, but it seemed rude to throw away the food he’d been offered. He set Abel down gently. “Hey, dove, can you sit with Sister Miriam for a bit? I need to finish tidying the sanctuary and prepare for confessions.”
Abel nodded vigorously, mouth full again. “Mmmhmm. I’ll be good, Papa. Promise.” He lifted his pinky finger.
Joseph smiled and took it, ruffling his hair. It was longer now than Mary would have allowed, but he couldn’t bring himself to cut it. Each day Abel looked more like her: the same dark curls, the same way his nose scrunched when he smiled, his little giggles. Joseph both cherished and feared that resemblance and he didn't want to get rid of it just yet. “I know you will, Abel.”
As he walked back toward the altar, rosary beads clicking softly against his palm, he felt the weight of eyes on him.. not accusing, but kind. The parish had become more than a congregation after Mary’s death; they’d become family. Father Michael would clap him on the back later, gruff and brotherly, muttering about needing to eat. Father Luca would linger after evening prayer, asking quiet questions about doubt and calling. Miriam and Elena would bring soup tomorrow, insisting Abel needed “proper nourishment.”
Confessions passed in a soft rhythm, Joseph’s legs getting stiff the longer he sat. The last penitent, a young mother worried about her temper with the children, left with a lighter step and a soft smile. “Thank you, Father,” she sighed, giving Joseph a brief glance through the wall between them before leaving. Joseph lingered only a moment longer in the dim confessional, forehead against the lattice screen, breathing in the faint scent of old wood and candle wax.
He stepped out into the nave just as Father Michael emerged from the sacristy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, missal tucked under one arm. The older priest’s face lit up the way it always did when he saw a fellow member of the church. It was the same smile that had coaxed reluctant confessions out of half their town for thirty years.
“There you are, brother,” Michael hummed, voice booming in the near-silent church. He clapped Joseph on the shoulder; it was the same firm gesture Joseph remembered from his seminary days when he was still green and doubting his vocation. “Thought you’d fallen asleep at the rail.”
Joseph managed a small smile. “Tempted. Long morning.”
Michael’s eyes flicked over him, hand squeezing his shoulder. “You look like hell, Joseph. Have you been eating properly?” He lowered his voice, glancing at where Abel sat with Miriam, now napping in her lap. “Mary wouldn’t want you wasting away, Joseph. None of us do. Come to supper tonight, or I’ll force-feed you Luca’s awful stew.”
Before Joseph could protest, the side door creaked open and Father Luca slipped in, young face flushed from the chill outside. He carried a few books, a pout of protest on his lips. At twenty-six, he still looked more like a seminarian than a priest.
“Father Joseph,” Luca greeted, dipping his head in quick respect before huffing at Father Michael. “I heard that and my stew is not awful. It’s… different. Traditional. From my home country.”
“Different,” Michael echoed dryly, “that’s surely one word for it- and you were born here! I doubt you recreate your mother's dish with any semblance of the original.”
Luca sighed, setting his books on a pew. He ignored Father Michael's jab. His gaze softened when it landed on Joseph, “are you alright, Father? You look… t.. tired.” His tone suggested it was a kind way to put it.
Joseph felt that familiar ache bloom behind his ribs. He knew he’d changed since two springs ago, but was it truly that bad? Luca had only been there for a year, but the young man had taken to Joseph quite immediately. Even if Joseph appreciated it, and considered himself blessed to have such a community, he wished they’d drop it. Mary had been the other half of his soul, and he would allow himself as much time as he needed to grieve her. “I’m managing,” he bit out, the words sharper than he intended. “Abel helps. The parish helps. I’m… grateful.”
Luca nodded, understanding. “Good, we’re not going anywhere.” He hesitated, then added softer, “if you need confessional yourself, Father, we’re here. Even if it is just to sit and not say much.”
Michael snorted fondly. “Listen to the boy, he’s wiser than his years suggest.”
Joseph exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you, both of you.”
Michael gave his shoulder one last squeeze. “Supper, seven sharp. Bring Abel, he can tell us about those birds he’s proud of spotting.”
Joseph watched as they turned and headed toward the sacristy, Luca bringing his books with. He felt a small, steady warmth of brotherhood settle around the hollow places grief had carved. They weren’t blood, but he considered them family all the same. He turned back to the front pews.
Abel was still curled in Miriam’s lap, face pressed into her side, pastry crumbs dusting both their habits. Joseph sat beside them, pulling out a rag to gently wipe the boy’s sticky cheeks. Abel roused with a small, grumpy whimper, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fist, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
“Oh it’s no problem, Joseph. He’s such a sweet, little thing.” Miriam assured, adjusting Abel so he would wake easier. The boy tiredly wiped his eyes, looking a bit upset at being woken.
“Good morning, my dove. It’s time to go, we’ve got a few errands.” He hummed, hearing Abel groan and whimper, trying to hide his face and continue his nap. “C’mon, I thought we might look around the market after.”
Abel’s eyes suddenly lit up, grogginess rushing from his form as he turned towards his dad. “The market?” He yawned, “can we see the man with the music boxes? And the apples? And-”
“Maybe,” Joseph smiled despite himself. He lifted Abel, brushing crumbs of his clothes. He let the boy rest his cheek on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck. “Let's go get your coat first.”
Sister Miriam rose slowly, pressing a third pastry into Joseph’s hand for the road before dusting herself off. “Take care out there, Father. And eat.”
Joseph tucked the bun away, careful to keep the wax paper wrapped around it. “I will.”
He carried Abel, light and warm, and walked him towards the doors. He grabbed his coat from the rack and stepped outside into the October air. It was crisp and burned at his face, the warnings of the first snow of the year showing in the clouds above. The town square hummed with life and bustle, many out and about in preparation for the frost.
Joseph sighed, “where to first?”
Abel pulled his arm through the sleeve of his jacket, “can we see the man with the music boxes?”
Joseph grimaced. Truth be told, he didn’t trust that man. He’d appeared in the square only a week ago, cart laden with strange, exquisite wares—music boxes from cities Joseph had only read about, carried carved boxes that sang in minor keys. The merchant claimed to be a wealthy traveler, but something about his stillness, his pale gaze, set Joseph’s nerves on edge.
Still, Abel’s hopeful expression—the way his eyes lit like
candles—made the decision for him.
“All right, dove. Let’s see the music boxes.”