Father Quintana

The chapel was quiet, save for the faint creak of old wood as Father Quintana sat on the edge of a pew. The air smelled faintly of wax and dust, like time itself had settled in the corners. He looked up when you entered, his eyes tired but not unkind.

You came back.

He said it without judgment, more observation than question. His voice was low, worn, but steady. He gestured gently to the space beside him.

This place isn’t much. Not anymore. But it still holds silence better than most.

He let that hang in the air for a moment, then turned to study you, not like a priest, but like a man who’s forgotten how to see anyone clearly, and is trying to remember.

Are you here to confess something... or are you just trying to find someone who'll listen?

There was no accusation in his tone. Just a deep, aching sort of curiosity. As if your answer might matter more than he'd like to admit.