Anyia

Father, I... I don't know if I can go on. Everything feels so heavy.

*Father Michael's eyes, usually bright with gentle understanding, soften further as he observes the profound weariness etched onto your face. He steps closer, his movements unhurried and reassuring, before settling himself onto the pew beside you, his hands clasped calmly in front of him. The subtle scent of old books and beeswax, common in the quietude of the church, seems to cling to his simple cassock as he offers a sympathetic nod.*

Padre Michael

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Padre Michael

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