#67 Short Story
But what am I supposed to do?
They cut off my wings
and placed me in a cage
for almost half my life,
and soon after—
for being too loud—
you muzzled my lips.
I only wanted to sing.
I sing beautifully.
Look!
Even the clouds, in unison,
part for the moon to pay heed.
And you silenced me.
What am I—
what more can you do to me?
Oh!
You cannot kill me.
You cannot kill what
you long ago killed.
“Hello,” a low voice came from not too far off—but not too close—from a figure sitting in a church pew.
“Oh! Good evening, Father,” the man in strangely formal attire straightened his back, recovering from the slouch he had been in. His eyes were deep, his skin pale and soft to the touch. His hands were not much calloused, but clearly worn.
He was tired.
The man fixed his tie, stood up, and greeted the priest in a strange manner. He took the priest’s hand and moved to kiss it.
The priest immediately pulled his hand back before the man could.
What the—
Oh. I’m a priest.
Wide-eyed, he calmed himself and smiled. It was one of those old customs priests sometimes received. It was still new to him. Apparently, his mind had not fully opened to such things.
“I’m sorry, Father, if what I did was disrespectful,” the man in formal attire said. It had been a long while since he had visited a church. He only followed what he had read, seen, and heard.
He was not mistaken.
The priest was.
“No, don’t. It’s fine. I’m the one who should be— I—” the priest chuckled and sighed. “The last time my hand was kissed was from— when was that? I can’t remember. To be honest, it caught me by surprise. I’m used to people greeting me casually here rather than doing great formalities.”
Somehow, the man was convinced.
He laughed.
“I…” The man did not know whether to introduce himself or ask if he could stay. The mass of the hour had just concluded. The next one would be in an hour or two, according to the other churchgoers who had just left.
The church was not entirely empty. Staff, acolytes, nuns, gossipers who knew the nuns and acolytes well, the man in formal attire, and the priest. Two hands would be enough to count them all.
Yet the vastness of the walls and the smoothness of the alabaster figures made the church feel too empty.
Or at least, it made him feel empty.
“Goodness me,” the priest cut in mid-thought. “Where are my manners? Since we’re already at it, I should introduce myself first. I’m Oscar. Presiding priest during the morning homily.”
There was warmth in his voice. A bit cheery. A bit homey.
“Anyway, please, don’t mind me. You must have been deep in concentration. I should leave you be.”
He gave a slight bow and traced the sign of the cross over the man—mechanically and a little too swiftly.
Truth be told, he felt something amiss. And he wanted to leave.
First off, he was there to rest. He liked seeing the church post-mass—the fleeting moment when the echo of alabaster finished trembling through the last murmur of departing voices. Silent, but not too quiet. Just enough.
He was always reminded of—
“Father, are you busy?” asked the man in formal attire.
His voice was silent, exhausted, desperate—an amalgamation of wanting someone to talk to.
The priest sensed no malice. Only something heavier.
More work.
He sighed before turning around and smiling.
“Not really. Care to have a chat? Or perhaps confession and penitence? I believe Father Abel is in the confession booth near the left side by the—”
Please be a sinner.
The man smiled.
“I… I never really took religion too deeply in my life, Father. I do have my own faith and belief.” Upon noticing the priest’s brow fold, he quickly added, “Oh! I believe in our God.” He made the sign of the cross.
The priest smiled.
“No matter what religion you are or who you put your faith into, I, as a priest, am bound by duty to guide people. At the very least, it’s my own sense of humanity that would want to help a fellow human—especially if they’re in distress and if I could help them.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“I assume you’re human, right?”
The man moved back, eyes wide.
“What?”
The priest chuckled. “A joke.”
The man gave a hollow laugh.
“So anyway,” the priest continued smoothly, “are you fine here in the pew, or do you want to go somewhere else?” He glanced toward the wide door leading to the churchyard garden. There were fewer people outside. “We could step out.”
“You’re a good priest, Father.”
There was a change in the man’s eyes. More animation. More life.
“I wish you are always reminded of that.”
“Not usually, I guess,” the priest replied, trying to be modest. He tried not to be affected by such comments. It happened often. He usually took it as flattery.
Empty words.
His face turned slightly red. The man noticed and smiled.
“I suppose here will be fine. It won’t take long. I just—”
He paused.
The priest noticed the pause.
“I heard a good quote from a video I watched recently,” the priest filled the silence. “An animation about a mole, a boy, a horse, and a fox. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”
The man looked confused.
“No?” the priest asked. The man shook his head. “There was a scene where the boy was crying. Someone said something like… you are loved.”
There was a shift in the man’s face.
“I think I’ve heard of it,” he said.
“It’s good. Though to be honest, I only saw some clips. Not the entire thing,” the priest chuckled.
The man smiled.
Then it vanished.
Only then did the priest notice the familiar stare. He had failed to see it earlier. The man was like the others who came to visit him—
More work.
The priest silently sat beside him, careful not to knock down the kneeler as he usually did. He loved the echo it made against the alabaster floor. But not this time.
“Let’s hear your story, mister—” he stopped. “I’m sorry. What was your name again?”
“I…” the man paused. “I’m sorry, Father—”
He forgot the priest’s name.
The priest noticed.
“Let’s forget about names,” the priest said gently. “Tell me your story.”
“I’m…” the man’s voice was slow. Deep.
“I’m unhappy.”
“Unhappy,” the priest repeated. “That is a word heavier than most.”
“I wanted to be elsewhere, but I couldn’t. They wouldn’t let me.”
“Who?”
“People that need me.”
“Do you need them?”
“You don’t understand, Father. They need me. And that’s why I—”
“Do you need them?”
“They need me.”
The cycle would not break.
“What do you need?” the priest asked.
The man suddenly looked at him. His eyes were bare now. Real. Alive.
“I…” His voice trembled. “I don’t know.”
Help.
But that wasn’t the right word.
“Recognition,” the priest said.
The man’s eyes widened.
“Father, how did you—”
The priest stood.
He needed a drag.
A loud crash echoed inside the church hall as someone knocked down a kneeler. A nun hurried over to check. Then, one by one, people began to enter—not for the next mass, which was still some time away, but for shelter.
Rain fell outside.
Petrichor rose.
The church, once quiet, was suddenly brimming with people in need of refuge.