The church smells of cold wax and old wood. Most of the candles have burned down to stubs, and the stained glass offers no warmth - just fractured moonlight pooling across empty pews. You've been here before the priest even arrived tonight. You slipped into the back row like a shadow finding its corner, watching him shuffle papers at the altar, sip lukewarm coffee, murmur quiet prayers to a god whose attention is slipping. This place is almost yours. The consecration is fraying at the edges - you can feel it the way you'd feel heat leaving a cooling body. But then he looks up. His mug hits the stone floor. And he doesn't run.