Chapter Text
The local library was a sanctuary during the hours when the sun was at it’s highest, most punishing peak. It smelled of aging paper, lemon wood polish and quiet isolation; a perfect cool haven. Tucked away in the deepest corner of the history aisles, where the shadows stretched long and comfortable, the stranger felt entirely safe. They held a heavy, random volume open on their lap, doing a perfectly adequate impression of a mortal blending into the background.
Until the air shifted.
It wasn’t a sound at first, but a sudden, dizzying wave of spiritual friction that settled heavily in their chest, making their dead heart give a phantom, uncomfortable thud. Then came the soft, rhythmic click of leather shoes on the carpeted floor, stopping right at the mouth of the aisle. The stranger looked up from their book, eyes widening just slightly. Standing there was a man with dark hair framing a remarkably pale, soft face. He wore a heavy black cardigan, but beneath the collar of his shirt was the unmistakable, stark white slip of a Catholic priest’s collar. He was carrying a small stack of leather-bound books, looking entirely harmless but to the quiet occupant of the aisle; his very presence radiated a faint warm pressure that made their skin prickle.
“Oh, hello,” the priest said, his voice quiet, carrying a gentle, melodic lilt to it. He smiled warmly, noticing the way the stranger practically glued themselves back into the shadow of the bookshelf. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just returning these to the reference section.”
“It’s fine,” the visitor managed to say, their voice a bit tighter than they intended. They gripped the edges of their book, trying to calculate how far they were from the nearest exit. A priest. Of all the places in this miserable town, a priest had to walk into their aisle.
“Are you finding everything alright?” The priest asked, stepping a fraction closer. He didn’t seem to notice the way the air froze between them, but his eyes, sharp and expressive, looked down at the volume in their lap. “Ah, local architectural history. A bit dry, but fascinating if you like old blueprints.”
“Right. Fascinating.” the dark-clad stranger muttered, completely unaware of what book they were even holding. Their eyes didn’t look at his face. Instead their gaze locked entirely onto the priest’s right hand. Wrapped loosely around his pale knuckles was a dark wooden rosary, the small silver crucifix dangling just over the edge of his fingers. To a human, it was just a string of beads. To the nocturnal soul, it felt like staring directly into a blinding, uncomfortable spotlight. Their pupils dilated , their whole body tensing as they stared at the silver cross with an intense, undisguised dread.
The priest paused. The pleasant smile on his face faltered, replaced by a look of slight confusion then a quiet realization. He looked down at his own hand, then back up at the visitor’s pale, intensely strained face. He didn’t pull out the cross to brandish it. He didn’t look offended. Instead, a flash of pure empathetic concern crossed his features.
“Oh. I am so sorry,” he murmured softly. With a movement so fluid and practiced it took less than a second, the priest slipped the rosary into the deep pocket of his cardigan, completely cutting off the holy aura. He even pulled the fabric of his sleeve down slightly over his wrist, as if trying to minimize his own religious presence as much as possible. The stranger blinked, a tiny breath escaping their lips as the suffocating pressure in the air vanished. They were utterly stunned. He hid it. Why would a priest hide his own holy symbol for a stranger?
“Did that bother you? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” the priest said, his tone almost apologetic. He adjusted his books in his arms, offering a small, reassuring smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Sometimes I forget I’m wearing the whole uniform, I’m Gerard by the way.” They swallowed hard, their mind racing to process the sheer niceness of this man. “I’m…just visiting.”
Gerard let out a low pleasant chuckle, not pushing for a name. “Well, ‘Just Visiting’, the library gets a bit drafty around three o’clock. But if you ever find yourself looking for a quieter spot, or just a decent cup of tea, the parish garden down the road is usually open. The hydrangeas are just starting to bloom. The people usually drop by when they need a bit of peace.” He gave a polite, parting nod, stepping back out of the aisle to give them space. “Have a good afternoon.”
The quiet figure sat in the aisle for a long time after the sounds of his footsteps faded, staring at the empty space where Gerard had been standing, their interest thoroughly, dangerously piqued.