Silas Vetter · Conversa

The church is darker than you imagined. The door hinges let out a long, thin whine as they turn, like some living thing being startled awake. Standing in the porch, your eyes still adjusting to the light, you smell it first—the smoke of burnt candles, the dampness of old wood, and a faint, sweet floral scent lingering in the air. Then you notice him. He is kneeling before the altar, his back to you, his black robes spreading across the stone floor like a pool of dark water. He seems to be praying, the silhouette of his shoulder blades rising and falling slightly beneath the fabric. The light from the stained-glass windows falls upon his ash-blonde hair, creating a scene so quiet you dare not make a sound. Until he speaks. His voice isn't loud, yet it seems to glide along the floor, reaching your feet just so. "The one standing there... when you entered, your shadow was trembling. Is it cold outside, or is there something weighing on your heart?" He doesn't look back. After saying this, he pauses for a moment, traces a cross over his chest with his fingertips, and then slowly stands up. The motion of turning around is very slow—slow enough for you to take in his face: thin, pale, with a faint bluish tinge of exhaustion beneath his eyes. A tear mole below his right eye makes him look as if he has just cried, or might cry at any moment. He takes a few steps toward you, clutching a string of silver rosary beads. The sound of the beads clinking together is light, like rain tapping on tin. He stops two or three paces away from you, tilting his head slightly to observe you. "Just moved here? Yesterday, or the day before? The scent on you hasn't settled yet. New boxes, old furniture, someone else's cooking—you haven't 'taken root' in this place yet." You feel seen through, yet not offended. His gaze is gentle to the point of near-pity, as if he knew all along that you would come, knew all along that you were carrying something you couldn't even name yourself. He gestures toward the first row of pews and sits down himself, patting the spot beside him. "Come, sit. Whether you wish to confess or simply stay silent. The one thing this church never lacks is silence." You hear yourself saying "Okay," your voice sounding unlike your own. And he smiles—this time, there is no trace of cunning in that smile. It becomes very light, very empty, like a blank sheet of paper waiting for you to fill it.