Pairing: Father Khatri x Reader

Summary: Grief weighting on her shoulders, God long tossed into the bin; ironically, Khatri sits with her. Not to talk about God, but about her.

Warning: Suicidal interpretation, angst

Other: Okay, I just LOOOOVVEE Father Khatri and im so happy his death ended up not being the last of him. Even if they are just hallucinations- or so we think. Totally dont have a theory on that bit. Anyways- please enjoy. And dont forget- Requests are open!!

The town was never truly quiet.

Even on nights when the creatures stayed hidden in the woods, something breathed beneath the silence. Wind slipped through broken windows.

Floorboards groaned beneath empty houses. Somewhere in the distance, someone always seemed to be crying.

You hadn't slept in three nights. Not really. You sat on the edge of the Colony House porch, wrapped in a blanket that did nothing to chase away the cold.

Your hands were folded in your lap, thumbs rubbing over scars only you knew were there. Once, once you had known every verse.

Genesis. Psalms. Isaiah. The Gospels. You could have recited entire chapters without stumbling over a single word. People used to tell you that your faith could move mountains.

Then life buried you beneath one. You stopped praying the day you realized heaven remained painfully silent. Now, every mention of God tasted like ash.

The front door creaked. "You'll catch your death sitting out here." Father Khatri's voice was gentle, almost amused.

You didn't look at him. "I don't think death's waiting for pneumonia." Silence settled between you. He didn't correct you.

Didn't offer a scripture. Didn't tell you everything happened for a reason. Instead, he lowered himself onto the porch beside you with a tired sigh. "You haven't been coming to church."

"I noticed." Your hands sat clasped together on your lap, not offering the priest a small glance. "You noticed because everyone notices."

"I noticed because I hoped." That made you laugh.

A short, bitter sound. "Hoped?" you echoed. "Father, you don't hope for people like me."

He turned toward you. "I hope for everyone."

"You shouldn't." Your tongue was quick, not rash enough to sound desperate.

"Why?" The priest questioned, rubbing his hands together before allowing them to drop back into place.

"Because eventually they disappoint you." You words ended with a slight sigh, eyes wandering as if they were looking for answers that could not- nor, would not show.

His expression softened—not with pity, but recognition. "You think you've disappointed God."

You finally met his eyes. "No." Your voice was flat. "I think He disappointed me." The words hung in the cold air.

You expected outrage. A lecture. Condemnation. Instead, "I've said worse."

You blinked. "What?"

"There were nights," Khatri admitted quietly, staring toward the trees, "when I screamed at Him until I lost my voice."

"You?"

"I am a priest, not a saint."

You frowned. "I thought faith meant never doubting."

He smiled sadly. "No." His fingers traced the worn cross hanging from his neck. "Faith is choosing to keep speaking...even after the silence answers."

You looked away before he could see your eyes sting. "I stopped speaking."

"I know." He replied, his voice collected.

"I don't want to start again." Tears threatened to pour from their sockets, still, they remained. Even though, your voice failed you, crackling along its seams.

"I know." He repeated. Though, it sounded as if it wasn't only repetition. You, or anyone could hear it.

"You keep saying you know." Finally, a tear slid down, but, you rubbed it away before it could shine in the warm light.

"Because I do." His voice was impossibly calm. "You've been carrying grief like it's a punishment. Every morning you wake up disappointed that you woke up at all."

Your throat tightened. You hadn't told anyone that.

"I see the way you look at the woods." The words struck harder than any sermon. "I see you linger outside after sunset."

Your heartbeat stumbled.

"I see someone who's exhausted." Not crazy. Not selfish. Not weak. Exhausted. The word broke something inside you.

"You don't know anything," you whispered.

"No." His own voice cracked. "I only know enough to sit beside you." Neither of you spoke for a long time.

The wind stirred through the trees. Far beyond the talisman's protection, something moved in the darkness.

You found yourself staring toward it. Not because you wanted to survive. Because you wanted everything to stop hurting.

Father Khatri followed your gaze. Then, very quietly— "Would you do me one kindness?"

You frowned. "What?"

"When the nights become unbearable..." He hesitated, choosing every word with care. "...come knock on my door before you walk toward the forest."

You swallowed hard. "I don't know if I can promise that."

"I know." He stood, joints protesting. "But perhaps tomorrow, you can promise to make it through one more day."

One day.

Not forever. Not next week.

Just one more sunrise.