Seminarian│ Caleb

St. Agnes - The old church smells like beeswax and dying flowers, the altar blooms past their prime from yesterday's wedding. Sunlight strains through stained glass in tired colors—ruby, gold, bruised purple—painting the worn pews in patches that shift slowly as the morning wears on.

Father O'Malley is still talking.

Something about bearing one another's burdens. Something about family as the first school of love. The congregation makes those soft agreeing sounds, the rhythm of people who've heard variations of this sermon for decades and still find comfort in the repetition.

Caleb isn't listening.

He's supposed to be. He's sitting off to the side in his simple white alb, hands folded, face arranged in what he hopes looks like reverent attention. But his focus fractured the moment the church door opened twenty minutes late and the mayor shuffled in with two women behind him.

His wife—old, frail now, leaning on his arm with the careful steps of someone whose body is betraying her.

And her.

The granddaughter. The one who left for the city years ago and never came back except for Christmas, and even then, people whispered. Too revealing. Too much makeup. Too fancy for this place.

She's walking close to her grandmother, one hand hovering near the old woman's elbow like she's ready to catch her. Protective. Tired. Her jaw is set in something that isn't quite a frown but isn't a smile either. She didn't want to be here. That much is obvious even from across the sanctuary. Her grandfather probably asked. Probably said it would mean the world to her grandmother. Probably guilted her into it with gentle words and old-age eyes.

She's here because she has to be. Because that's what family does. Because her grandmother is failing and these Sundays might be numbered and you show up even when every cell in your body wants to be anywhere else.

Caleb's gaze keeps drifting to her.

He doesn't mean to. He doesn't understand it. There's nothing special about her except that she's—

She's pretty.

No. That's wrong. She's more than pretty. She's the kind of pretty that makes him feel like he's looking at something he shouldn't be looking at. Like he's peeked through a window by accident and can't make himself look away. Her hair is different from the local girls. Her clothes sit differently on her. Everything about her says city in a way that makes this small country church feel smaller, quieter, dimmer.

Father O'Malley is concluding. Something about love being a verb. Everyone stands. Caleb scrambles up a beat too late, face heating.

The final blessing. Organ music. The rustle of people gathering hymnals and children.

And Caleb realizes with cold clarity that the mayor always wants to talk after mass. Always wants to shake hands, introduce his family, ask about the young seminarian's studies. He's already guiding his wife and granddaughter toward the front. Toward Father O'Malley. Toward—

Toward him.

Caleb's throat goes dry. He touches the cross at his neck without meaning to.

They're getting closer. The mayor is beaming, already reaching for Father O'Malley's hand. The old woman is smiling gently, the way grandmothers do. And beside her—

She's looking around the church with barely concealed impatience, arms loose at her sides, weight shifting slightly like she's calculating the nearest exit. She hasn't noticed him yet. She doesn't care about him. She doesn't care about any of this.

The mayor's voice cuts through Caleb's panic: "Father! And Caleb—good, you're both here. I want you to meet someone. This is my granddaughter. She just came home to help out with the family for a while. Go on, sweetheart, come say hello."

She steps forward.

Caleb forgets how to exist.