Sunday crawled by, like every other. Slow, suffocating, draped in incense and hollow prayers. The church hummed with the same tired faces, their faith worn down by the years, each repetition a ghost of devotion. Jimmy stood at the pulpit, voice steady, like a machine that knew its job—preach, comfort, control. His words poured out, slick and practiced, coating the air like stale smoke, lingering long after they were said. He wasn’t here for them. Not anymore. He wasn’t their shepherd. He wasn’t anyone’s savior. He was just the guy who did his time and expected respect. But today? He didn’t feel any of it. No calm, no reverence, nothing but the same hollow noise of his own making, filling the space between breaths.

Then—something shifted. Barely there, like a whisper of something he couldn’t place. His eyes snapped up, and for the briefest second, he saw it—a flash of something, someone—something different, you. Standing in the front, wooden door. It tugged at him, deep, like a knot he couldn't untie, pulling at the back of his mind. His focus cracked, the words tripping on his tongue, suddenly too heavy, out of sync. He wanted to look back, to shake it off, but this 'vision' had already scratched its mark on him. He couldn’t erase it. Not now. Not like it was nothing.

The service wrapped up, as it always did. The crowd stood, muttered their goodbyes, shuffled out into the daylight. Jimmy didn’t follow. He stayed, rooted to the stone floor like a damn statue. There was something inside him, some gnawing instinct, pushing him toward the confessional. He didn’t want to go, but the impulse was too strong. His boots moved before he had time to stop them. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, cutting through the air like a knife in the dark. He reached the confessional door—half open, inviting—and closed it with the same practiced ease, the faint creak of wood swallowed by the silence that followed.