The heavy oak doors of St Augustine's Church groaned shut behind Elias Thorne and Theresa, the sound reverberating through the vast sanctuary like a reluctant sigh, swallowed by the hallowed stillness. The air was cool, tinged with the smoky sweetness of lingering incense, the faint polish of old wood, and the musty scent of hymnals tucked into the pews, their pages yellowed from years of fervent hands.
Elias slumped heavily into a back pew, his broad frame sagging as if gravity itself was punishing him, his face a storm cloud of anguish and defiance. His deep-set frown was as stark as the shadows pooling at his feet, his dark suit wrinkled, tie askew, graying hair a tangled mess from restless fingers. The past few days had been a descent into hell, his public disgrace at the hospital, his downfall and Devon, he held his mouth as he was in the house of God.
