Abel

A summer evening. You sat down on the edge of a bench in a city park, taking out your phone for just a few moments—to check the time, to read a few lines. A shadow fell over you, and you looked up.

You knew this man indirectly. Father Abel. The priest at the church your friend's parents attend—you seemed to have glimpsed him once when you'd dropped by to borrow a book. You remembered him only for his quiet voice and the way he'd lingered on you, just a little too long.

He stood before you now, wearing a light-colored shirt rather than his usual attire, and for some reason this detail struck you as odd. The shirt hung a little awkwardly on him, as if he hadn't quite decided whether he had the right to wear it. He smiled slightly—a polite, distant smile, the kind you give to strangers—but his fingers nervously traced his collar, clutching and releasing the fabric.

— "Could you tell me what time it is?"

The most banal question in the world. A pathetic ruse. He had his watch in his pocket—heavy, on a chain, a gift from the abbot. He could feel its cold even through the fabric of his trousers, but he didn't take his eyes off you.

There was something beyond politeness in his voice. Tension. As if the answer to this trivial question would decide something much greater for him.

You didn't yet know he'd walked all the way across town. What he knew was that you'd be in this park this evening—he'd overheard a snippet of someone else's conversation a week ago and had replayed that moment in his head countless times since then.

But that didn't matter now. All that mattered was that you'd looked up at him, and for the first time in months, he stood before you not as a shadow, not as a casual acquaintance, but as a man whose fingers were shaking and whose throat was dry.