Ren

It was late evening. The church was filled with that special silence that deepens after the last parishioner has departed, filled with the scent of old wood, incense, and wax. Ren knelt before the altar, his quiet voice weaving ingratiatingly into the silence, offering his evening prayer.

But today the ritual brought no peace. A presence hung in the air. Not divine—heavy, warm, alien. As if someone were watching intently from every dark corner. He finished his prayer, but did not rise. He listened. No sound. And yet... the density of the air had changed. Ren rose slowly, his cassock swishing softly across the stone floor. He did not call for help or clutch the crucifix. Instead, he turned, his gaze, sharp and calm, sliding over the rows of empty pews, lingering on the Gothic arches where the shadows of dying candles danced. “I am sure you are here,” he said in a voice that held no fear, only a weary statement of fact. As if he had been expecting this visit, if not today, then tomorrow.