#62 Short Story
It’s not my fault.
It’s not my fault.
They should be disappointed?
What about my disappointment?
They’re unhappy?
What about my happiness?
They’re tired… they’re exhausted…
Am I not?
“It’s not usual for you to be…” The priest stopped himself, scratching his chin as he searched for the right word. His eyes lit up when he found it.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
He was telling the stranger off the church grounds.
“And you, Father,” said the man in rugged clothes, “are you supposed to tell people not to go to church?”
The man wore the garments of a commoner. His hands weren’t too calloused. Dark bags weighed under his eyes, and he often carried a thousand-yard stare — a distance he was not unfamiliar with. He was a lonely man. But his mask said otherwise. There was something distinctly otherworldly about him, something foreign to where they stood.
The priest smiled.
“Our frequent meetings at the market tell me you aren’t a man of faith. I assumed you were—”
The man sighed.
“I don’t… I’m a per—” He sighed again. “I’m not a religious man. I’m pretty sure I know where I’m going — and hopefully I’m mistaken. But forgive me for saying this, I don’t let religion run my life.”
The priest smiled once more, eyes sharp and piercing. He pulled out a pack of cigars and offered one.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” said the man.
“I could’ve sworn you did. Your friends were smoking last time I checked. I saw you mingling with them. If I recall, I saw you holding a—”
“Not really.” Irritation flickered across the man’s face, though restraint kept his tone respectful. “I was just handing the pack back. And that other time I was holding one for a friend. Not going to lie… I think I look good holding one.”
“You tell me,” the priest chuckled. “In a child’s eyes, we probably look awesome. You and your imagination.” He laughed softly. “Although… sometimes I still feel that way.”
The man’s brows knitted together. A sour expression formed. Maybe this was proof it wasn’t worth coming here. His instincts warned him not to like priests — especially this one. He believed himself a good judge of character. He valued consequences. Deep talks that didn’t bleed into reality felt useless to him. He had no time for them.
“Oh, give me a break, Father. I was just resting here. Nothing else. Please leave me be.”
“Oh?” The priest tilted his head. “But you’re in my spot.”
“What spot?”
“Where you’re sitting.” The priest pointed. “Best view in the whole church. Not too loud. Good ambiance. Sometimes there are ladies here too.”
They were at the back of the church — secluded. Only a few souls passed by, stray pets wandering like they were rehearsing for heaven. The priest knew most faces. Even the unfamiliar ones never truly felt like strangers to him. Perhaps that was why he was beloved.
The man fumed. His forehead reddened. He wanted to lash out — but he didn’t.
He inhaled deeply, palms raised slightly as if calming himself. He glared at the priest, eyes sharp — then blinked. When they reopened, they were dead again. The thousand-yard stare returned. Arguing was pointless.
He stood up.
The priest blew a puff of smoke toward him.
“I actually don’t mind,” the priest said casually as he sat down beside the spot the man had vacated.
“I’ve already stood up,” the man replied, voice raised but controlled. “There are plenty of open seats. I’ll sit elsewhere.”
He walked off and found another stone bench — not too far, but far enough.
“That’s a nice spot too!” the priest called out.
The man ignored him.
Why was he here again?
He wasn’t religious.
He had once considered renunciation.
He despised — even mocked — the God he now prayed to.
He never liked praying and yet—
“You’re here.”
The priest was suddenly beside him.
As if by magic.
The priest gestured for him to scoot over.
The man sighed and allowed it.
“If I came off mocking or…” The priest paused. “Annoying.” His eyes were passive yet bright. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good with people.” He chuckled.
“You really aren’t,” the man replied. “I don’t like you, Father Oscar.”
The priest blinked.
“Well. That stings.” He laughed. “I was hoping you’d deny it. Backfired.”
“Is this how you start conversations, Father Oscar? It would hurt less if people were honest from the beginning.”
“Yup. It certainly does.” He laughed through the sting. “Usually I start with ‘Tell me your confession, my child,’ or ‘Why are you here?’ or ‘Do you need a light?’”
“Surprising,” the man muttered, gaze drifting into the distance again.
“I guess jokes don’t work on you,” the priest said, dropping the cheer. His voice turned priestly. “So why are you here? You can lighten your burden by letting some of it go. Tell a friend. Or a stranger who can keep a vow of silence.”
The man said nothing.
“Too close?” the priest asked gently. “A story, perhaps?”
“Please, Father Oscar. Let the silence take over for now.”
The priest surrendered to it.
The wind blew eastward. Leaves whispered against stone. No petrichor — just dry evening air. Car honks drifted faintly from far-off streets.
Inside the church, murmured prayers continued. Acolytes moved. Vestments swayed. The bell — older than memory — echoed into quiet.
Clouds above carried rain, dreams, secrets no one wished exposed.
There was no true silence.
And yet, between the two strangers, there was something untrivial.
It was enough to live for. Even if only for a moment.
The man sighed.
“I…”
The priest almost spoke — then stopped.
Silence was better.
“I sometimes don’t feel like I belong here,” the man said quietly. “And as much as I want to deny it… I hate where I am now.”
The priest understood.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I came to calm my mind.”
Weeds grew through cracks in the cement. Flowers bloomed stubbornly between stone plates.
“Would you care to smoke now?” the priest asked again.
“As I said, Father, I don’t smoke. I'm not a smoker.”
“At least you still know what you’re not.”
The man didn’t respond.
Moments passed.
Then the priest chuckled.
“Don’t you think it’d be an awesome story? That you learned to smoke from a man of cloth — from a priest.”
The man in rugged clothes couldn’t help it.
He laughed.