The priest walks the cobbled path to the chapel,
his cassock worn thin at the seams. The village
has not changed—same thatched roofs, same low
murmur of the river—but the air hums with
something new. He stops at the gate, where a
child points and whispers, “He’s back.”
The priest’s name is never spoken aloud. The
villagers remember the scandal: a confession
leaked, a woman’s name dragged into the light, a
bishop’s decree cast him out. He lives now in
the old rectory, a crumbling stone house where
the walls hold more silence than prayers.
Every Sunday, he tends the graveyard. The graves
are fresh, marked with names no one else knows.
He leaves a single white rose at each, then
watches as the flowers wilt before sunset. The
villagers say it’s the work of the fae, but no
one dares to speak of it.
A boy from the town arrives, barefoot and
wideeyed. He brings a letter sealed with wax,
addressed to the priest. The boy says nothing,
only drops the letter and runs. The priest opens
it to find a list of names—his own among them—
and a warning: They know you’re here.
The priest begins to investigate. He visits the
local pub, where the barkeep serves pints with a
knowing glance. The man says nothing, only
slides a glass across the counter. Inside, a
jukebox plays a song from the 1980s, the melody
familiar but wrong. The priest recognizes it
from his youth, but the lyrics are different.
He finds an old book in the library, hidden
behind a row of religious texts. The pages are
filled with symbols he doesn’t recognize, but
the margins are scribbled with notes in his own
handwriting. The text speaks of a pact made in
1923, a deal between the church and the unseen.
The priest’s name appears in the margin, crossed
out.
At night, he hears voices in the walls. They
speak in a language he almost understands. One
night, he answers. The voices stop. The next
morning, the village is empty. The priest walks
through the streets, finding doors open, windows
shattered. A child’s toy lies in the middle of
the road, still warm.
He returns to the chapel, where the altar has
been replaced with a circle of stones. The
priest places his hand on the center, and the
ground cracks open. A voice speaks, not in words
but in memory. The priest remembers: he was
never exiled. He chose this.
The villagers return, but they do not speak to
him. They avoid the chapel, the graveyard, the
old rectory. The priest stands at the edge of
the village, watching as the sun sets. The sky
is the color of blood.
He does not leave. He does not speak. But the
stones beneath his feet shift, and the wind
carries a whisper he has not heard in decades.
The priest is not alone.
