He didn't stay in the apartment.
Not after the words on the wall.
Not after the whisper that wore her voice.
He stood in the rain for a long time, staring at his building like it had betrayed him. Then he got into the car and drove—hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked, mind racing in circles that refused to close.
There was only one place left to go.
If heaven was silent… he needed to know who had been speaking instead.
The church lights were on.
That alone made his stomach knot.
It was late—too late for services, too late for visitors. Yet warm light spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the wet ground in fractured colors.
He hesitated at the door.
Then pushed it open.
The smell of wax and old wood wrapped around him instantly. Familiar. Heavy. The same space. The same altar.
But not the same silence.
Someone was inside.
A man stood near the front pews, back turned, carefully straightening candles that didn't need straightening.
"Excuse me," he said.
The man turned slowly.
Older. Grey at the temples. Calm eyes. Clerical collar.
"You're back," the priest said gently.
His heart skipped. "You remember me?"
The priest studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Hard not to remember a man who prays like he's drowning."
The words hit too close.
"I need to ask you something," he said.
The priest gestured to the bench. "Sit."
He didn't.
"There was a man here," he said. "The other night."
The priest's hands paused.
"What man?"
"He knew things," he pressed. "Things no stranger could know. About my wife. About my child."
Silence crept back into the church, thin and watchful.
The priest exhaled slowly. "Did he give you a name?"
"No."
"Then he hasn't finished with you," the priest said quietly.
His pulse quickened. "You've seen him before."
The priest didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the altar and rested his hands on its edge.
"People come here when they've exhausted heaven," he said. "Some leave with faith. Some leave with anger."
"And some?" he asked.
The priest turned.
"And some," he said, "find something else willing to listen."
A chill slid down his spine.
"You're saying he's real."
"I'm saying," the priest replied carefully, "that silence has weight. And when it lingers too long, it attracts attention."
His fists clenched. "From what?"
The priest met his eyes. For the first time, uncertainty flickered there.
"From things that don't knock unless invited."
He swallowed. "Did I invite him?"
The priest looked away.
"You came here asking heaven to speak," he said softly. "And you meant it."
The words settled like a verdict.
"My apartment," he said. "There were messages. A voice. My wife's voice."
The priest stiffened.
"That's not a comfort," he said sharply. "That's a hook."
"A hook for what?"
"For choice," the priest replied. "For direction."
He stepped closer. "What should I do?"
The priest hesitated—then reached into his coat and pulled out an old, worn notebook. He flipped to a page marked with a red ribbon.
"People who meet him," he said, lowering his voice, "always face the same moment."
"What moment?"
"The moment they're offered truth without mercy."
He frowned. "And if they refuse?"
The priest closed the book. "They're left alone."
His chest tightened. "And if they don't?"
The priest's gaze hardened.
"Then the silence ends," he said. "But so does innocence."
A sudden sound cut through the air.
Footsteps.
Behind them.
Slow. Unhurried.
The candles flickered violently.
The priest's face drained of color.
"He's here," he whispered.
A familiar calm voice echoed from the shadows.
"Not yet," it said. "But soon."
The lights went out.
Complete darkness swallowed the church.
In that blackness, the voice spoke one last time—close to his ear.
"You asked if heaven remembers," it murmured.
"It does."
"And now," it added, almost kindly,
"so do I."
The lights snapped back on.
The church was empty.
The priest stood alone at the altar, breathing hard.
"Leave," he said urgently. "Before the next knock."
As he turned toward the door, his phone vibrated.
A message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Next time, you choose.