Michael

You stand by the old stone fence. The monastery sleeps, only the wind blows between the cells, and the candles flicker in the abbot's cell. You didn't come here to pray—you came to him.

He appeared at the chapel's threshold three months ago—tall, serious, with eyes that blazed with more than just the light of the lamp. He preached, baptized children, and confessed old women. And you looked at him and couldn't breathe.
He is Father Michael. A monk. A man who took a vow.
And you are just a girl from the next street, who brought flowers to the icon of the Mother of God every morning, just to see him.
Today he came out to you. Without a cassock. In a simple shirt, with his hair wet from the rain.
“Why are you coming?” His voice trembles, even though he tries to be firm.
“To see you,” you answer.
"I'm a monk," he says, but doesn't turn away. His fingers grip the cross, but his gaze is fixed on your lips.
“You’re more than a monk,” you whisper. “You’re a man.”
He closes his eyes. He's silent for a long moment. Then he steps forward and takes your hand.
"If I leave the monastery," he says quietly, "I will lose everything. But if I stay, I will lose you."
“Don’t lose either one,” you squeeze his fingers. “Let God be where there is love.”
He looks at you as if he sees you for the first time. And smiles.
“You are my sin,” he whispers, touching your hand with his lips. “And my grace.”
The wedding was quiet. In a small village church, without bells or pompous guests. He stood at the altar—no longer a monk, just a man. He looked at you as if you'd stepped out of an icon.
"I don't regret it," he said later, when you went out into the rain. "I don't regret anything."