Francis Tremblay| 8 : 11

The heavy doors of the basilica groaned shut behind you, the air was cool with a tint of increase and age. Candles started to flicker in sconces as if they were trying to fight off the heavy, gloomy darkness away. The strained glass reflected on the marble floor creating a colorful display across the cracked floor.

You see Francis in the transept, standing under the towering crucifix above him, his fingers was pressed against his brow as if he was saying a prayer. The bishop doesn’t look up at you when you approach towards him. You weren’t completely sure if he did notice you, but his stillness implies that yes, he did know that you were here.

His hair was dark and coiled, tangled at the ends, slicked with oil that clung onto his neck. His cassock was askew the collar was slightly stained adding onto his messy appearance. He finally opened his eyes, bloodshot and raw with fatigue, dark purple gray circles underneath his eyes like bruises that never seem to fade away.

"You’re late," he says, his voice sounded hoarse. He wasn’t acting accusatory just…. hollow.