Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
My hands clutch the edges of the lectern as I lean forward. “God’s love comes to us in all kinds of unexpected ways. It’s as fragile as it is fierce. Like God Himself being born into this world as a baby in a dirty barn. Like losing all your worldly possessions but finding the kind of love that survives even when everything else falls apart.”
The words nearly tangle in my throat.
Because, holy shit, I love her.
I love Moira. Not just the chaos of her and not just the way she makes me feel alive—but all of her. Even the parts that scare me.
Just because of who she is.
She showed up like a miracle in my life, and I love her.
I barely manage to keep my hands steady while I move through the rest of the service.
I have to call her. I’ll drive home tonight after all; I don’t care if I only get an hour of sleep before tomorrow’s morning service.
Finally, we get to the service’s last tradition—the Midnight Mass candlelight benediction.
The lights dim slowly, leaving the sanctuary bathed only in the faint flicker of candlelight from the altar. I step forward, holding the single flame that will spread from person to person like a ripple across water.
“Light shines in the darkness,” I say softly, my voice carrying even in the hush. “And the darkness has not overcome it.”
I light Agnes’s candle, watching as she turns to pass the flame along. A soft glow blooms in the darkness—fragile yet unstoppable. One small light grows into a sea of flame.
The organ begins the first gentle notes of Silent Night.
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright…
The congregation sings, voices blending, soft and reverent. I watch their faces bathed in golden light—hope flickering in fragile flames.
And as I stand there, holding my own candle, the warmth of it trembling in my hands—
I see her.
Moira.
I gasp and blink, looking again as if my eyes have deceived me. My candle flickers with my sudden inhale of breath.
But it’s her, standing at the very back of the church, just beyond the last row of pews. She’s holding a candle, but she’s not dressed for church. Her curly hair is wild and untamed, catching the faint glow of candlelight like a halo gone rogue. Her coat is slightly crooked, and though warm candlelight blooms on her cheeks and forehead, her eyes are shadows.
How long has she been here?
The moment our eyes meet, it feels like the world stops spinning. Like every note of Silent Night fades into nothing, leaving only the pounding of my heart.
She doesn’t move. Just stands there, her gaze locked on mine, her expression unreadable—something between defiance and longing.
I swallow hard, the candle trembling slightly in my hand.
I shouldn’t look.
But I can’t look away.
The hymn comes to an end, the final note lingering like a held breath.
“Go in peace,” I say softly, my voice rough around the edges.
The congregation responds, but I don’t hear them.
Because all I can see is her as the congregants file out, lights held aloft in their hands.
Moira.
Maybe faith was never about choosing between darkness and light.
Maybe it’s about learning to stand in both. Night and day in harmony.
And as I extinguish my candle, I feel the glow.
Not from the flame.
From her.
I step forward once more. Toward her. Toward hope.
THIRTY
MOIRA
The service was beautiful.
I came in late and stayed here in the back. But watching Bane do his thing is nothing short of… magical.
He transforms up there. Like he’s a whole different person, except not really. Somehow, he’s still him, but more. Both the dominant man I—um—have strong feelings toward (read: want to climb like a tree) and this calming, radiant presence that casts a spell over everyone in the room.
It’s wild.
Everyone felt something while he talked. Even me. Even though he was just reciting old words from an even older book about shit I don’t believe in. But it didn’t matter because he made it all come alive. Like he breathed life into them. Made them feel meaningful and useful and like maybe, just maybe, there’s something bigger than us out there that loves us.
I mean, the way his voice filled the space, soft but strong—
I blow out my candle and press my palm against the center of my chest, right over my heart. It feels raw like someone cracked me open with a chisel. There’s this weird ache, not a bad one, just… sharp. Bright. Too big for my ribs.
I take a step back into the shadows, my heartbeat buzzing under my skin like I swallowed a hive of bees. I watch as people line up to greet him—Father Blackwood.
He steps down from the altar, still wrapped in all his holy finery: billowing white robes, a blue sash-thing draped around his neck, and his collar glinting under the soft, flickering candlelight.