#63 Short Story
“Good evening, Father Oscar,” a strange warm voice disturbed the stillness of the churchyard.
The priest, who was supposed to be resting, was startled—not out of fear, but by a reason too common among the faithful and rarely voiced.
“Oh. Why am I so blessed with this many trials and tribulations? They just keep coming,” the priest murmured, irritated that once again his peace was disturbed.
“Tell me, Father Oscar. Was the moon always this dark?” the voice asked, unneeding an answer.
“Oh. It’s you.”
The man offered a cigar from his pack. A piece was already peeking out. The priest took the whole pack.
“You know, as a man of the vest, we refrain from vice.”
“And on the seventh day the Lord chilled. I’m pretty sure He had a cigar in His hand while He rested.”
“You dare say blasphemous things in front of a man of faith?” One of the priest’s eyebrows rose higher than the other, his tone preachy and heavy. “More so, a priest.”
“Oh, but Father Oscar—you’re you.”
The priest sighed. He took a cigar and handed the pack back. He gestured with his thumb. A metallic flicker sounded and, after a few tries, a flame appeared. The priest leaned closer, the cigar between his lips. He inhaled as the end burned red. He exhaled slowly, smoke leaving his mouth in a tired sigh.
“So why am I seeing a lost ghost here on holy ground?” the priest asked.
The man stiffened.
“Oh, surely you’re not misguided enough to forget the certain networks a priest might have. More so, a priest much beloved,” the priest said in rhetoric.
“What?” the man asked.
“I heard the stories,” said the priest. The man just understood the vague analogy. “There’s no one here but me in this courtyard tonight. Certainly no fugitive nor any vagrant being looked after is here with me.”
The priest sat beside the man on the stone bench. The night air was cold, and so was the moist stone beneath them. Silence settled, broken only by their sighs. The smell of nicotine and petrichor scented the courtyard—a fragrance all too familiar to those who’ve felt dead longer than they’ve been alive.
“I—” the man began.
“You know,” the priest cut in, “I used to believe apologizing was a good thing. Apologizing even without change occurring. It still counts as apologizing. No matter how empty it is—it’s still a good thing.”
“Don’t you think what you’re saying contradicts who you are?” the man asked, surprised by the priest’s words.
“Well, I used to,” said the priest. “Maybe I still do.”
He laughed softly.
“If that’s how it is then confessions and prayers would altogether just be empty,” the man said, content with his reasoning.
“No.” The priest flicked ash to the soil beneath a church tree and shifted his gaze toward the night sky.
The man offered another cigar. The priest refused with a small smile.
“Saying sorry, confessing sin, apologizing—these are all made of words. Even when not spoken aloud. Even when written. The intentions after that are just…” The priest stopped. He was speaking to a man of the streets. Rhetoric would not do.
He sighed.
“So what then, Father Oscar?” the man asked, like a child seeking an answer from his father.
The priest smiled and accepted the cigar this time. The man tapped the pack, and another cigar emerged.
“Saying sorry is meant as a promise of change. That’s what you’re saying, right?” the priest said, placing it between his lips. “But I believe there is more to it.”
He gestured again for a light. The man obliged.
After lighting it, the priest exhaled upward. Smoke drifted like evening clouds. A sigh escaped him.
“Apologizing—admitting mistakes—is not just wanting to be better. It’s a way of accepting that evil, sin, and wrongdoing are real. Not just thoughts. Real things. And realizing them as such…” He paused, then continued. “We say sorry to make ourselves aware of the wrong things we do.”
“Isn’t that the same—”
“We remind ourselves when we come face to face with them again. We ask: I know this is wrong. Should I continue? And once there—” The priest froze. His thoughts tangled. Even he was unsure where he was leading. “All I’m saying is we must not ignore our sins as trivial things. We must label them as wrong. And if—”
He stopped.
“Is there something in this cigar?” the priest suddenly asked, eyes widening. There was a mandatory random drug test in the area, and he had volunteered.
“Oh!” the man laughed nervously.
“You mother—” The priest grabbed the man by the collar. The man flinched, apologizing quickly, swearing there was nothing in it.
“There’s just menthol in it, Father Oscar. Nothing else.”
“Oh.” The priest released him. “It must be me, going on with my silly thoughts. Me, a cigar, the cold evening air, the ambiance of a dark church…”
He exhaled.
“You sure?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then I suppose I must apologize too.”
The man grew cautious, eyes frantic.
“No, it’s not like that,” the priest said gently. “I’m sorry that that’s all I could do for your family.”
The man went still. He understood now who had been quietly watching over them while he failed to be a husband and father.
“Hold on, Father. You’re the one who—”
The priest smiled. He stood and prayed for the soul who had joined him on his evening stroll.
He returned inside as the smell of petrichor grew stronger. The taste of sky water filled the cold air. There was no mass that night. Only silence.
“Who were you talking to, Father Oscar?” a child acolyte asked, still awake. “And why do you smell like the construction workers and the porters who come here?”
The priest sniffed himself. Nicotine. Faint, but there.
“Was I talking to someone?” he asked.
“Yes, Father Oscar. I heard your voice. And why are your clothes dirty?”
“Would you mind keeping a secret?” The priest leaned closer. “I can see ghosts.”
The child’s eyes widened. His curiosity piqued, though he assumed the priest was simply teasing him.
“But ghosts aren’t real, Father Oscar. And please don’t treat me like a young child. I’m all grown up, you know?”
The priest smiled.
“Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher one day?” he asked.
The acolyte blinked. “Why would you ask that? I want to be a priest one day, Father Oscar.”
“Oh. May the Lord bless your poor soul,” the priest whispered, too faint for the boy to hear.
“What did you say, Father Oscar?”
“I’ll be going now. Don’t stay up too late, alright?”
The priest walked back to his lodging.
The acolyte frowned slightly.
“Strange,” he muttered. “Father definitely smelled like incense.”
He paused.
“I’ll have to ask Sister Abby about that.”