The stranger stopped a few steps away, close enough now that the candlelight revealed more of his face.
Not old. Not young either. Clean-shaven. Calm. The kind of calm that didn't belong in a place soaked with grief.
"You shouldn't be here," he repeated, firmer this time.
The man tilted his head slightly, as if studying him.
"You said that already," he replied. "People usually repeat themselves when they're afraid."
"I'm not afraid."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the stranger's mouth.
"Of course not."
Silence pressed down between them, thick and uncomfortable. Rain drummed softly against the roof, distant but persistent.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
The stranger glanced toward the altar, then back at him. "Someone who arrived too late… and stayed too long."
His chest tightened.
"Meaning?"
"It means," the man said calmly, "I know what it feels like to walk into a place like this expecting answers—and finding only echoes."
Something about the way he said echoes made his skin prickle.
"You should leave," he said.
"And miss this?" the stranger asked, gesturing subtly around them. "A man standing in a church after burying his future?"
His breath caught.
The word future hit harder than it should have.
"You don't know anything about me."
The stranger's eyes sharpened.
"I know," he said softly, "that you still set two alarms every morning. One for work. One for her medication. And you haven't turned the second one off yet."
The world tilted.
His throat went dry. "That's… that's not—"
"I know," the man continued, unbothered, "that you still reach for your phone at night, even though no message is coming. And I know you haven't washed the mug she used last. The one with the hairline crack near the handle."
His heart pounded now, loud enough to drown out the rain.
"Stop," he said.
The stranger took one step closer.
"I know her name," he said quietly.
Everything went still.
The candles stopped flickering. The rain seemed to fade. Even his breath felt suspended.
"Don't," he whispered.
"Because when you say it out loud," the man went on, voice almost gentle, "it becomes real again. And you've been surviving by pretending it isn't."
His fists clenched.
"Say her name," the stranger said.
"No."
"Say it," he pressed. "Or I will."
The air felt tight, like it might shatter.
"…Lena," he said finally, the name tearing out of him like a wound.
The stranger nodded once, as if confirming a detail he already knew.
"And the child," he added. "Sixteen weeks. A girl."
Something broke.
He lunged forward, grabbing the stranger by the coat and slamming him back against the nearest bench. The sound echoed through the church, sharp and violent.
"You don't get to say that," he snarled. "You don't get to know that."
The stranger didn't fight him.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even raise his hands.
Instead, he met his gaze steadily.
"She would have had your eyes," the man said. "But her mother's patience."
His grip loosened.
"How?" he whispered. "How do you know this?"
The stranger gently pried his hands away and straightened his coat.
"Because silence," he said, "doesn't mean absence."
A chill ran through him.
"What are you?" he asked.
The man looked toward the cross again, his expression unreadable.
"Not what you think," he said. "And not what you were taught to fear."
"Then why are you here?"
The stranger turned back to him, eyes dark now.
"Because when heaven goes quiet," he said, "something else always starts listening."
The words settled heavily in the space between them.
"And what does it want?" he asked.
The man smiled—this time without warmth.
"To see what you do next," he replied. "Whether you keep knocking… or finally walk away."
The candles flickered violently, flames bending as if pushed by an unseen wind.
Then, just as suddenly, they steadied.
The stranger stepped back into the shadows.
"I'll be seeing you," he said. "Sooner than you'd like."
"Wait—" he started.
But the man was already gone.
No footsteps.
No door opening.
Nothing.
Only the silence remained.
And this time, it felt alive.