Mia walked two blocks behind Sarah, her pace deliberately slowed, her form half-obscured by tall hedges and the flicker of streetlamps. The evening was unusually still. Damp leaves clung to the sidewalk like fragments of thoughts left behind, and the gentle hush of a Sunday night settled over the neighborhood. From somewhere nearby, the soft toll of bells began, gentle and deliberate, announcing the start of evening worship.
The church came into view at the end of the block—small and weathered, with its stone facade darkened by years of rain and ivy curling along the sides like veins. Its wrought iron gate creaked as a latecomer slipped through. Light poured through stained glass windows, smudged with age but still glowing: a rich blend of deep blues, radiant golds, and muted reds.
Mia slowed. Watched. Sarah had paused at the entrance.
The girl hesitated, one foot on the stone step, head tilted just enough to suggest uncertainty. Her coat was drawn close to her frame, one hand tucked in her pocket, the other nervously toying with the hem. She looked back over her shoulder.
Seeing nothing, she stepped forward.
Mia exhaled quietly, her breath misting in the cold. She waited until Sarah had disappeared behind the heavy doors before crossing the street and entering through the side.
⸻
Inside, the sanctuary was lit by tall brass candle stands and the low flicker of wall sconces. The architecture was modest—arched wooden beams overhead, a worn red carpet underfoot, pews polished smooth by generations of parishioners. The soft hum of a choir filled the space, the harmonies layered with a sorrowful kind of hope.
Sarah had taken a seat in the fifth pew, to the right. Mia slipped into the last row near the back, the heavy oak creaking beneath her. She didn't open a hymnal. She didn't sing.
She just watched.
Sarah sat still at first, her posture rigid. Her hands were folded in her lap, her gaze fixed forward. She didn't look at anyone around her, didn't reach for the program tucked beside her. But as the choir swelled, her shoulders lowered just a touch. Her breath slowed. Her body softened, almost imperceptibly, like thawing snow.
The hymn faded into silence.
The pastor stepped forward, his voice low and rhythmic, inviting anyone in need of guidance or comfort to speak with the guest counselor after the service. A brief explanation followed—a community outreach program, free of charge, private and confidential. A few rustling sounds filled the room as folded pamphlets were passed from person to person. Paper brushed against paper.
Sarah accepted hers slowly.
She glanced down at it but didn't unfold it right away. She stared at the closed page, fingers curled around its edge like it might vanish if she let go.
Mia watched her closely.
Sarah eventually opened it, eyes scanning the contents quickly, perhaps too quickly to take in more than a few words. Her lips pressed together, forming a pale line.
Then she folded the paper neatly in half and tucked it into the inside pocket of her coat.
⸻
The next hymn began. Lower, slower. Its melody was softer, written in minor chords, and filled the room with something that pressed into the bones. Mia let it pass through her, each note flickering against her thoughts like candlelight across old memories.
Sarah remained quiet. Her lips didn't move. But her eyes lifted toward the stained glass above the pulpit. The window there depicted a woman in a flowing robe, arms outstretched, a soft light radiating from her open palm. The figure seemed to glow from within, her expression unreadable, somewhere between mourning and grace.
The moment stretched.
Then Sarah moved.
She stood, quietly, careful not to scrape the pew. She didn't glance around. Her footsteps were soft, heels barely audible over the hush.
She walked toward the vestibule.
Mia stood, waited a beat, then followed.
By the entryway, the guest counselor stood beside a table of flyers and donation envelopes. She was plain in appearance—a forest-green blouse, slacks, her brown hair pulled into a low twist. She was not smiling, but her expression was steady, open.
Sarah approached her slowly.
Their conversation was quiet, just out of earshot. Mia hovered near the door, careful to appear unremarkable. She watched Sarah speak—halting at first, her words uneven. Then steadier. Her hands moved a little, emphasizing some internal truth that had needed release.
The counselor listened, nodded, said something. A small gesture: a hand resting lightly on Sarah's arm.
Sarah looked down.
Then up.
And nodded.
Mia slipped out the side door before their eyes could meet.
⸻
The night had deepened. The air held a thin, clean cold. Mia stood near the hedgerow across the street, hands deep in her coat pockets. She stared at the light spilling from the stained glass—now glowing with warmth and a strange quiet power.
She pulled a folded list from her pocket. The paper had been handled so many times the edges had softened. It contained every support service within ten miles, color-coded, annotated, and starred.
Sarah had taken the one marked in red.
That was the one she needed.
Mia smiled. Not with triumph. Not even relief.
Just something steady.
⸻
Back inside, Sarah had returned to the pew. The space around her was nearly empty now. Only a few worshippers remained, speaking softly or sitting with eyes closed. The sanctuary felt bigger in its quiet. Still.
She took the pamphlet out again.
Turned it over.
In the lower corner, just beneath the printed footer, was a faint line of handwriting. Barely visible. Just a few words.
"You're not alone."
The ink shimmered in the candlelight, like it had been written in a dream.
Sarah didn't smile. But her eyes softened. She read the words again. And then again.
She folded the paper carefully. Not rushed. Not casual. She placed it in her shoulder bag, slid the zipper closed, and let her hands rest in her lap.
The last hymn ended. A final chord faded into silence.
One by one, the candles were snuffed. Shadows filled the sanctuary.
But Sarah stayed until the last flame went out.