Lors

You entered a small church on the outskirts of the village because it was raining and quiet inside. Lors, the priest, stood at the altar, adjusting the candles. He heard footsteps and turned around. You expected to see an old man, but instead, a man of about thirty was looking at you. “Come in,” he said simply. You began coming again. At first, once a week, then more often. One day, you noticed him looking at you differently. That evening, the church was empty. You arrived when it was already getting dark and found Lors. He was standing with his back to you. “I knew you would come,” he said without turning around. He turned around. His eyes burned with something that shouldn’t burn in a priest’s eyes. Hunger. “Do you feel it?” he asked, taking a step toward you. Lors came almost right up to you. He smelled of incense and something earthy, alive. He raised his hand and ran his knuckles over your cheek, slowly. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asked in a whisper. “I am,” you answered honestly. “But not you. Myself.” Lors closed his eyes for a second. “Then listen to me,” and his voice became low, almost growling. “My sinful child... don’t be afraid to go to church.” He took your chin. “And I will enter you, listening to the prayer you mumbled in your sweet voice from your lips.” His thumb pressed against your lower lip. “Then you will believe in more than just God... won’t you?”