08-30-2025, 12:20 AM
The church was tucked between two wide, snow-dusted boulevards, its bell tower rising like a sentinel against the Moscow night. Not a landmark for tourists, nor so small that it went unnoticed. Its stones were worn but tended, the old wood of the doors darkened by years of weather and hands that had pushed through them.
Jensen chose it for exactly that reason. It was Catholic. Foreign enough to him that he would be just another quiet stranger slipping into a pew, but not so obscure as to feel abandoned. He wasn’t here for novelty. He was here for a place where no one would know his name. Where no one would look twice.
The nave was warm, filled with the low murmur of prayers and the scent of incense that seemed to sink into the stone itself. Midnight Mass. Candles flickered in their brass holders. Children yawned against their mothers’ shoulders. Families gathered close, coats draped across pews.
Jensen slid into a seat near the back, leaving distance between himself and the nearest worshippers. He did not belong among them. He knew it in the tightness of his chest, but he bowed his head when they bowed, rose when they rose, murmured the words he half-remembered. It was enough to pass as one of them, even if the motions felt borrowed.
His mind was elsewhere anyway. With Rachel’s trembling hand in his, with the sudden light that had returned to her eyes. With Emily’s relief, with her gratitude. He’d left them to their celebration, but the image of them lingered. For one evening he had been a miracle worker. A vessel. A man who could pluck nightmares out of the air and leave peace behind. And now he was, what? Nothing again. Adrift?
His thoughts slid toward Jessika. His wife, ex-wife, widowed wife - he wasn't sure how to think of her. She was here in Moscow now, walking halls of power, wielding authority like it had always belonged to her. He hadn’t spoken to her tonight. He wasn’t even sure he could if he wanted to. But the knowledge pressed on him all the same, stirring up memories best left buried.
The service passed in solemn rhythm. When the priest dismissed them, the congregation drifted out into the winter air in small clusters, voices muted with emotion and weather alike. Jensen followed behind, his steps indirect but steady.
Outside, the cold bit sharp against his cheeks. He pulled his coat closer and was about to cross the street when something caught his eye: a statue set off to one side of the churchyard. A lone angel carved of pale stone, weather-softened but still graceful. Its wings arched behind it, its face lifted slightly toward the sky.
Snow had gathered along the folds of its robe and the curve of its shoulders, softening its lines, but its presence felt like it was watching him.
Jensen stopped before it while the crowd drift on by, their voices disappearing into the night. He studied the angel in the dim light, the way its expression seemed almost tired, yet resolute. A guardian, still standing after years of wind and cold.
He lingered a moment longer, the breath from his lips clouding the air, before lowering his eyes.
Jensen chose it for exactly that reason. It was Catholic. Foreign enough to him that he would be just another quiet stranger slipping into a pew, but not so obscure as to feel abandoned. He wasn’t here for novelty. He was here for a place where no one would know his name. Where no one would look twice.
The nave was warm, filled with the low murmur of prayers and the scent of incense that seemed to sink into the stone itself. Midnight Mass. Candles flickered in their brass holders. Children yawned against their mothers’ shoulders. Families gathered close, coats draped across pews.
Jensen slid into a seat near the back, leaving distance between himself and the nearest worshippers. He did not belong among them. He knew it in the tightness of his chest, but he bowed his head when they bowed, rose when they rose, murmured the words he half-remembered. It was enough to pass as one of them, even if the motions felt borrowed.
His mind was elsewhere anyway. With Rachel’s trembling hand in his, with the sudden light that had returned to her eyes. With Emily’s relief, with her gratitude. He’d left them to their celebration, but the image of them lingered. For one evening he had been a miracle worker. A vessel. A man who could pluck nightmares out of the air and leave peace behind. And now he was, what? Nothing again. Adrift?
His thoughts slid toward Jessika. His wife, ex-wife, widowed wife - he wasn't sure how to think of her. She was here in Moscow now, walking halls of power, wielding authority like it had always belonged to her. He hadn’t spoken to her tonight. He wasn’t even sure he could if he wanted to. But the knowledge pressed on him all the same, stirring up memories best left buried.
The service passed in solemn rhythm. When the priest dismissed them, the congregation drifted out into the winter air in small clusters, voices muted with emotion and weather alike. Jensen followed behind, his steps indirect but steady.
Outside, the cold bit sharp against his cheeks. He pulled his coat closer and was about to cross the street when something caught his eye: a statue set off to one side of the churchyard. A lone angel carved of pale stone, weather-softened but still graceful. Its wings arched behind it, its face lifted slightly toward the sky.
Snow had gathered along the folds of its robe and the curve of its shoulders, softening its lines, but its presence felt like it was watching him.
Jensen stopped before it while the crowd drift on by, their voices disappearing into the night. He studied the angel in the dim light, the way its expression seemed almost tired, yet resolute. A guardian, still standing after years of wind and cold.
He lingered a moment longer, the breath from his lips clouding the air, before lowering his eyes.