˳ 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 ✶ 𝙳𝙾𝙻𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙴𝚁𝙰  ♱ ۫

❛  nera di malasorte che

ammazza e passa oltre ❜

❲ black of misfortune that kills and passes by ❳

𝓣HE CHURCH stood solemn in the midst of the storm, its old stone walls absorbing the muffled sounds of thunder rolling in the distance. Inside, the faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of wax dripping onto brass candleholders. Flickering flames illuminated the shadowed recesses of the sanctuary, their light casting long, trembling shadows over the wooden pews.

Father Charlie stood at the pulpit, his fingers loosely gripping its edges, his posture deceptively relaxed. The scattered congregation sat quietly before him—an eclectic mix of familiar faces and a few strangers seeking refuge from the storm. Some clasped rosaries between their fingers, their heads bowed. Others stared ahead, their expressions a mixture of distraction and quiet yearning. A small group of nuns, their habits pristine and their backs straight as iron rods, occupied a pew near the front.

Charlie's voice broke the stillness, steady and clear, but laced with a wry undertone that only those who knew him well could detect. "Faith," he began, his gaze sweeping across the pews, "isn't about certainty. It's about trust. And trust, my people, often shows up at the most inconvenient times."

The congregation stirred faintly, a rustle of coats and scarves as people shifted in their seats. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as though he were considering his next words carefully. "Like tonight, for example," he continued, gesturing vaguely to the vaulted ceiling above. "A storm outside, and here you all are. Though I suppose some of you are simply waiting for me to shorten the homily and light the incense."

A ripple of soft laughter followed. Even the nuns exchanged brief, amused glances. Sister Mary, the eldest among them and famously stoic, pressed her lips together, though the faintest hint of a smile betrayed her.

Charlie let the chuckles die down before leaning forward slightly, his tone lowering just enough to pull the congregation closer, as if sharing a secret. "But that's the thing about faith, isn't it? It's not about the incense. It's not even about the storm. It's about what you believe will meet you when you walk out those doors, soaked to the bone and shivering. It's about trusting there's something waiting for you beyond the rain."

He straightened again, letting his gaze linger on a man in the back who seemed lost in thought, his hands gripping the edges of the pew in front of him. "And if you're wondering whether God's waiting with a towel, I'd say He has better things to do. But if you're willing to ask Him for strength, well"—Charlie's lips quirked into a faint smirk—"you might just get through it. Or at least avoid catching pneumonia."

Another ripple of laughter, louder this time, rolled through the pews. It wasn't much, but it was enough to break the somber stillness that often accompanied such small evening gatherings.

The nuns laughed too, though some quickly hid their amusement behind their hands. Sister Mary, however, allowed herself a rare moment of indulgence, nodding faintly as if to say fair enough.

Charlie stepped away from the pulpit for a moment, letting his hands fall to his sides. The flickering candlelight played against his sharp features, accentuating the lines of his face—the quiet weight he carried, the shadows beneath his eyes that hinted at sleepless nights.

"I'll tell you this," he said after a pause, his tone softer now, more introspective. "Faith isn't forged in comfort. It's forged in moments like these. When the world outside feels cold and unrelenting, when the storm rattles the windows and you wonder whether your prayers are just whispers lost in the wind."

He glanced at the crucifix above the altar, his eyes lingering on the worn wood of Christ's outstretched arms. For a moment, his usual composure seemed to falter, replaced by something more vulnerable—a flicker of something deeply personal, almost raw.

"But if you're here," he continued, pulling himself back, his voice steady again, "then you've already taken the first step. And that's enough for tonight."

The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the soft crackle of candle wicks and the distant rumble of thunder. Charlie looked over the congregation once more, his sharp intellect and keen empathy evident in the way he observed them. Each face told a story—a question left unanswered, a struggle carried silently.

With a faint smile, he added, "And if faith fails you—well, you'll find umbrellas near the door."

The laughter that followed wasn't just polite—it was genuine, warm, and unexpected. Even Sister Mary allowed herself a soft chuckle, her weathered face softening in the dim light. He glanced at the back of the church, where shadows danced in rhythm with the flickering candles. Something stirred in him then—a faint unease, a memory unbidden. But he pushed it aside for now, letting the moment settle.

His voice rose steadily above the rhythmic patter of rain against the stained-glass windows, carrying the words of scripture with calm authority. The church was dimly lit, the flickering glow of candles casting dancing shadows along the arched ceilings. The heavy scent of wax and aged wood hung in the air, mingling with the faint dampness brought in by the storm outside.

The Bible rested open in his hands, its gilded edges catching the faint light as he turned a delicate page. His fingers moved with practiced care, his touch reverent. The rustle of the thin paper echoed faintly in the stillness, accompanied by the occasional murmur of shifting bodies in the pews.

He stopped at a passage, letting the silence stretch a moment longer before his voice filled the room.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls."

His words landed softly, like the rain outside, steady and unyielding. Charlie's tone carried a quiet urgency, one that reached for more than just attention—it reached for understanding, for hearts that may have closed themselves off. His eyes moved over the small congregation as he spoke, lingering briefly on each face.

A mother sat with her two children, the younger one fidgeting with a hymnal as she gently shushed him. An elderly man near the front tilted his head slightly, his hands clasped tightly around his rosary as though tethering himself to its weight. A pair of nuns, seated side by side, nodded quietly, their serene expressions betraying faint smiles of approval.

But Charlie's gaze faltered when it landed at the back of the church.

There she was.

She was seated in the last pew, her form partially cloaked by the dim light. Her coat hung heavily on her shoulders, the damp fabric clinging to her as though reluctant to let go of the rain. A small puddle had formed beneath her feet, but she didn't seem to notice. Her head was bowed slightly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and her posture—while outwardly composed—hinted at a tension just beneath the surface.

It wasn't her presence alone that caught his attention; it was the gold cross that hung from her neck. The delicate chain glinted faintly in the low light, drawing his gaze like a quiet beacon. The cross itself was simple, unadorned, and yet it seemed to hold a weight far beyond its size. It rested just above the hollow of her throat, the gold gleaming against her mahogany skin.

Charlie felt a flicker of something he couldn't name—an ache, a curiosity, a pull that he had no right to feel. His throat tightened, and for a moment, his words faltered.

Her lips moved, barely perceptibly, as though reciting a prayer of her own. But her eyes... her eyes seemed elsewhere. They were fixed on something invisible to everyone but her, filled with a flicker of something—pain? Doubt? Longing? Charlie couldn't tell, but it struck him with unexpected force.

A pause stretched too long.

"Father?" an elderly woman in the second pew whispered gently, drawing his attention back to the pulpit.

He blinked, grounding himself again, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Forgive me," he said, his voice laced with a hint of dry humor. "I suppose even priests lose themselves in thought from time to time."

A soft chuckle rippled through the congregation, even from the nuns. Charlie let it settle, using the moment to compose himself, though he could feel the weight of his heartbeat in his chest. He glanced back at the Gospel, his voice steady but quieter now.

"The yoke of faith is not meant to crush us," he continued, shifting effortlessly back to the scripture. "It is meant to strengthen us, to remind us that even in our most isolated struggles, we are not alone. God calls to us—not through thunder and fire, but often in the quiet, in the stillness, in the places we least expect."

As his words resonated through the sanctuary, his thoughts remained stubbornly tethered to the unfamiliar woman. Her presence lingered at the edge of his awareness, unsettling yet compelling, like a line of scripture he couldn't stop turning over in his mind.

The pew creaked faintly as she rose, her movements deliberate yet unhurried. Charlie had been watching her from a respectful distance, his curiosity sharp but contained beneath his calm exterior. The rain outside had only grown heavier, its relentless drumming against the stained-glass windows filling the church with a restless energy. Yet she seemed untouched by the storm's urgency, her presence as steady and enigmatic as when he first noticed her.

The rain battered against the stained-glass windows in relentless sheets, muting the vibrant colors into somber, watercolor-like smears. Candlelight flickered along the walls of the church, casting elongated shadows that seemed to move with the storm outside. The sanctuary smelled faintly of damp stone, melted wax, and the faint, clean fragrance of old wood polished by years of touch. The small congregation sat huddled together, their coats still damp from the downpour. Drops of rainwater pooled around their boots and umbrellas, and the occasional cough punctuated the stillness.

At the pulpit, Father Charlie stood tall, his hands resting lightly on the edges of the lectern. His black cassock, slightly frayed at the cuffs, hung heavily on his shoulders, as though the weight of the day had settled into the fabric. The pale, flickering light seemed to deepen the lines around his eyes and mouth, revealing the quiet burdens he wore like armor. His voice carried through the space, smooth yet steady, each word delivered with a deliberate cadence.

"'Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,'" he read from the Gospel, his tone reverent but tinged with a personal urgency. The words echoed in the cavernous space, accompanied by the steady rhythm of the rain against the roof.

The rain intensified, a sudden gust of wind rattling the windows. The sound momentarily drowned out his voice, and a dry smile tugged at his lips. He let the silence stretch for a moment, raising an eyebrow toward the congregation.

"Looks like tonight's storm isn't interested in subtlety," he said lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in faint humor. A few soft chuckles rippled through the small crowd, even drawing the barest of smiles from the nuns. The older man in the trench coat gave a throaty laugh that echoed briefly in the quiet.

But as Charlie's gaze wandered back to the mysterious woman, his humor faded. Her head was still bowed, but her lips moved silently, as though in prayer. Her damp hair clung to the curve of her neck, and the candlelight caught the gold cross once more, making it gleam like a flame. She didn't laugh, didn't move—she seemed entirely untouched by the world around her, locked in some private communion that Charlie couldn't help but feel was anything but serene.

His chest tightened as an unwelcome thought crept in: What burdens does she carry? Why does she seem so far away, even here, in this house of refuge?

He continued speaking, though his voice felt heavier now, as though the words carried a weight he hadn't intended. "The storms we face," he said, his tone softening, "are not punishments. They are opportunities. Opportunities to trust, to grow, to lean into something greater than ourselves. And even in the darkest moments, we are not alone."

But the words felt personal now, almost too personal. He was no longer sure if he was speaking to the congregation, to himself, or to the lone figure in the back pew. His fingers tightened around the edges of the pulpit, knuckles paling as he fought to steady his racing thoughts.

She shifted slightly, just enough to lift her head. For the first time, he caught a clear glimpse of her face. The damp strands of her hair framed high cheekbones and a delicate jawline. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing shallow, and her eyes—oh, her eyes—were sharp and knowing, as though she were reading him more than he was her.

For a fleeting moment, their gazes met. The air between them seemed to hum with an unspoken connection, a weight that neither of them had invited but couldn't ignore.

Charlie's heart stumbled, his composure slipping for the briefest of moments. He looked away quickly, turning back to the Bible in front of him, his voice steady as he closed the sermon. But the gold cross, the flicker of her eyes, and the weight of her presence lingered in his mind like an unanswered prayer.

As the final notes of the closing hymn faded into the cavernous silence of the church, Father Charlie lifted his gaze from the altar. The soft glow of candlelight reflected off the gold chalice in his hands, casting faint, dancing shadows across the stone walls. Outside, the relentless rain continued its rhythm, muffled but persistent against the stained-glass windows.

"Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord," Charlie said, his voice calm and deliberate, carrying over the hushed congregation.

"And also with you," came the quiet, scattered response.

The parishioners began to stir, the rustle of coats and scarves filling the sacred stillness. Some paused to make the sign of the cross before shuffling toward the exit, their footsteps muted against the worn stone floor. Charlie remained at the altar for a moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the chalice. His mind was distant, preoccupied, but his practiced demeanor didn't betray it.

A few of the older parishioners lingered, as they often did. He stepped down from the altar, his cassock flowing around him like a shadow, and moved toward them with a welcoming nod.

"Lovely sermon tonight, Father," said Mrs. Corbett, a woman whose age was betrayed more by the weathered rosary in her hands than by her sharp eyes.

Charlie smiled faintly. "You're kind to say so, Mrs. Corbett. Though I suspect most of the credit goes to the Bible itself."

She chuckled, a low, warm sound that echoed softly. "Well, it helps when the words are delivered with a touch of wit."

"Ah, careful now," Charlie said, his tone wry. "You'll give me a reputation for showmanship, and then where would I be?"

A few of the other parishioners, including a couple of nuns seated near the front, chuckled at his dry humor. Sister Megan even allowed a small smile to break through.

"Better a bit of showmanship than putting us all to sleep," one man quipped, drawing more laughter.

Charlie inclined his head. "I'll take that as encouragement to keep the theatrics to a minimum next week," he said with a faint smirk.

The lighthearted exchange seemed to lift the atmosphere, but Charlie's gaze instinctively wandered beyond the familiar faces. Toward the back of the church, where the dim light barely reached, she sat.

The young woman was still there, seated in the same pew as during the mass. Her head was bowed, her posture quiet yet deliberate, hands loosely clasped in her lap. The faintest gleam of gold caught his eye—the cross around her neck, swaying slightly as she shifted.

Charlie excused himself from the group with a polite nod, his steps carrying him toward her with an almost unconscious pull. As he approached, the distant hum of conversation faded, leaving only the steady patter of rain and the rhythmic creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet.

He stood near the edge of the pew, hands resting casually at his sides, though his mind was anything but still. The soft shuffle of departing parishioners drifted through the church as the congregation began to thin, leaving behind only faint whispers and the quiet murmur of rain pressing against the stained-glass windows. Yet, she remained—a solitary figure seated near the back, her head slightly bowed, her posture still and contemplative.

It wasn't unusual for someone to linger after mass, but there was something about her presence that drew him in. She seemed rooted there, unyielding, her damp coat shedding faint drops of water onto the floor. He felt an inexplicable pull, an urge to understand the story she wasn't telling.

He stepped closer, his voice breaking the lingering hush of the church. "Most people are halfway home by now," he said, his tone warm but tinged with curiosity.

She raised her head, her eyes meeting his. They were dark, but not in the way that suggested emptiness. Instead, they were layered—guarded but searching, as if she were piecing him together even as he studied her.

"I didn't realize there was a curfew," she replied, her tone light but steady, her lips curving just slightly at the corners.

"Not a curfew," he said, leaning against the pew in front of hers, his arms loosely folded. "But the church does get... drafty. And let's just say the heating system leaves something to be desired. It's not exactly five-star accommodations."

Her gaze flickered to the high, vaulted ceilings, where faint echoes of the storm reverberated. "I'm fine," she said simply, her voice calm but resolute.

Charlie tilted his head, watching her carefully. "Fine's a tricky word," he said, his dry humor slipping through. "People usually say it when they're anything but."

For a moment, she didn't respond, her fingers instinctively brushing against the gold cross around her neck. It was a small motion, almost imperceptible, but Charlie caught it—the way she seemed to draw strength from it, or perhaps remind herself of something.

"I like the quiet," she finally said, her voice softer now. "And churches... they have a way of holding it, even when there's chaos outside."

"Ah," Charlie said, nodding slightly. "A storm chaser. Or maybe just a storm survivor?"

Her lips twitched in the faintest suggestion of a smile. "A bit of both, I guess."

He smiled back, but it was brief, his gaze drawn to her again. She was composed, poised, but there was an undercurrent to her, something simmering beneath the surface. He found himself speaking before he'd fully thought it through.

"New to the town?" he asked, his voice more casual than his thoughts.

She nodded, her fingers still absently resting on her cross. "Just a few days."

"Well," he said, gesturing toward the rain-streaked windows, "you've already seen our greatest feature. Storms are a specialty here. We like to think of them as character-building."

Her smile lingered this time, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Is that what they call it?"

"Some of us do," Charlie said lightly, though he couldn't help noticing the shadows that played across her face, the way her expression flickered between amusement and something deeper. "But I take it you're not passing through for the weather?"

She hesitated, her gaze drifting back toward the altar. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. But then she spoke, her voice low but steady.

"No. I'm staying," she said, her tone firm but carrying the weight of something unspoken.

He studied her for a moment longer, the flickering candlelight reflecting faintly in her eyes. There was so much he wanted to ask, but he held back, letting the silence stretch between them. She wasn't just staying in the town—she was staying in his mind, her presence already carving out a space he didn't fully understand.

The pew creaked faintly as she rose, her movements deliberate yet unhurried. Charlie had been watching her from a respectful distance, his curiosity sharp but contained beneath his calm exterior. The rain outside had only grown heavier, its relentless drumming against the stained-glass windows filling the church with a restless energy. Yet she seemed untouched by the storm's urgency, her presence as steady and enigmatic as when he first noticed her.

As she adjusted her coat, Charlie's eyes caught on a fleeting detail—a sliver of lace slipping from beneath her sleeve. It was delicate, worn at the edges, and for a moment, he thought he was imagining it. But the frayed fabric tugged at his memory, unmistakably similar to the lace he had found tangled in the confessional door days earlier. A cold unease settled in his chest, but he kept his expression steady, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

She began to make her way toward the doors, her steps quiet against the polished floor. Charlie's gaze followed her, every instinct telling him to speak, to ask, to confront the strange coincidence. But he remained rooted, his words caught in a knot of uncertainty.

When she reached the threshold, she paused, her hand resting lightly on the door's edge. For a moment, she didn't turn, the rain cascading down the glass just beyond her. Then, as though sensing his unspoken thoughts, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes found his across the dimly lit space, their depth unsettling in its clarity.

"Thank you for the sermon, Father," she said, her voice soft but carrying a weight that seemed to fill the empty church. "Not many speak of storms with such... understanding."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and layered, and Charlie felt as though she had seen straight through his calm exterior to the turbulence beneath. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He wasn't sure what she meant—or if he wanted to know.

The faintest smile tugged at her lips, more a flicker of acknowledgment than warmth, and then she was gone, the heavy door swinging closed behind her. The storm outside seemed to swallow her whole, her figure vanishing into the curtain of rain as though she had never been there at all.

Charlie lingered in place, the air around him feeling heavier than it had moments before. His thoughts spiraled, drawn inexorably back to the lace brushing against her wrist, the quiet weight of the gold cross at her throat, and the way her words had struck a chord he hadn't realized was taut, waiting to snap. Something about her presence lingered in the silence, like the last note of a hymn that refused to fade.

He turned his gaze toward the confessional, its darkened frame standing stark against the flickering candlelight. It seemed different now—less a place of solace and more a shadowed void, watching him with a quiet, unsettling awareness. The memory of the lace caught in its door flashed in his mind, the connection forming with an eerie clarity that made his pulse quicken.

For the first time in years, Charlie felt adrift, as though the foundation he'd built for himself had shifted beneath his feet without warning. The priestly calm he wore so carefully now felt like an ill-fitting robe, unable to shield him from the storm that roared outside—or the one building within him.

Running a hand through his damp hair, he exhaled a slow, steady breath, trying to anchor himself. His eyes flicked back to the altar, its steady light a reminder of the faith he clung to. Yet even that felt distant, as though blurred by the rain streaking against the stained-glass windows.

The storm raged on, relentless in its fury, but it was nothing compared to the unease churning in his chest. For reasons he couldn't yet name, her presence—and all the mystery that came with it—left a crack in his carefully maintained composure.

And in that crack, something unspoken stirred.

AUTHOR'S NOTE !!
FATHER CHARLIE IS SO BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAA.
I know, it's giving nothing this chapter but i wanted to keep everything mysterious. Plus i was really inspired by the song of Fabrizio De André "Dolcenera". I recommend you to listen to it even if it's in italian but I think is a really good song.

Thank you for the attention !!! let me know if you liked it and leave a star and a comment if you want !! ( PLEASE DO ITTTTT ). 🩷🩷🩷