#quiet prayers

A simple question he should’ve easily been able to answer. It had to be 1951, since it had been six years since Timothy had been on the battlefield as a soldier. Before he opens his mouth to speak, something in his pocket whirs to life. Slipping his hand underneath the vestments, his fingers grasp at the object. Of course, he’d forgotten to turn his phone off-

It’s another cold night, the few candles of the church light barely enough space for him to weave through a maze of pews. Time isn’t consistent here, flashing between what feels oddly familiar to a time far behind him. Inconsistent, jumping back and forth as Father Timothy tries to make it back to the confessional booth. It must’ve been a week since he last opened it or a few months. He’ll figure it out soon enough.