Evangeline went about her days at the church with quiet diligence. She woke in the early hours of the morning, prayed, cleaned the halls, and prepared for the sermons.

The villagers now came often to offer their reverence, just as they had before the storm. She read the hymns from the sacred texts and preached the scriptures throughout the day.

When twilight came, she lit the torches that lined the church walls, their light flickering against the old stone. After her final prayer, she ate her evening meal in silence and spent some time reading before retiring for the night.

Life had returned to its usual rhythm. Yet, more than once, Evangeline found her gaze drifting toward the church gates, as though she expected someone to appear beyond them.

Whenever she prayed at the altar, Evangeline would find herself glancing toward the doorway. Each time she was met with the same empty threshold, she would sigh softly and return to her prayer.

Evangeline had once been content with marmalade and bread for her meals. Lately, however, she had taken a curious liking to sandwiches, though she could not quite say why.

One evening, Evangeline sat reading an ancient text on theology. She turned the worn pages with little curiosity until her eyes fell upon a few handwritten notes in the margins of a yellowed page — then another on the next, and another after that.

Those had not been there before. The handwriting was unfamiliar to the book, but not to her.

Sylas, she thought.

His chamber had remained locked since the day he left. She had left it untouched.

She read the book along with the notes he had left in its margins. Some were questions, others challenged the text itself, and a few simply recorded his own thoughts on the matters it discussed. Evangeline found herself lingering over a few of them longer than the rest.

Her gaze lingered on a small note written beneath one passage: “Sanctuary is not always a place. Sometimes it is a person.”

A few pages later, she found a single word written in the margin. Evangeline. Her finger gently traced the outline of the letters, as though to be certain that they were truly there. For a moment, the church seemed less empty.

The next day was quieter than the rest. Fewer villagers came to the church.

The milkmaid visited in the afternoon, bringing a small jug of milk and a confession to offer. She spoke cheerfully of how her cow had given birth to a calf just after the storm had passed.

Evangeline listened, though her attention drifted more than once toward the church doors.

The milkmaid paused mid-sentence and tilted her head.

“Sister, you seem distracted by the door,” she said. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, Betty. No one,” Evangeline said gently. “I will come by your shed soon to bless the calf.”

Betty lingered only a moment longer before taking her leave.

When the church fell quiet again, Evangeline’s gaze drifted once more toward the doors.

Evening settled quietly over the church. Evangeline had just finished lighting the last of the torches. She had only begun churning the milk to make butter when a knock sounded against the gates.

She paused, listening.

Another knock followed, softer this time.

Leaving the churn behind, she hurried toward the entrance. When she opened the gates, a figure stood beyond them.

For a moment, Evangeline thought her eyes had deceived her.

Sylas stood there.

There was something unfamiliar in his expression — something she had never seen before. His cloak was damp, his hair slightly disheveled. Otherwise, he looked the same.

She said nothing of it. She steadied her breath.

“You should come inside,” Evangeline said at last, breaking the silence between them.

Sylas stepped inside without hesitation.

They sat across from one another at the dining table, the silence between them lingering a moment too long. Sylas was the first to speak.

“I know my sudden return may trouble you,” he said quietly. “For that, I apologize.”

His eyes fell on her again before continuing.

“I traveled north through the forest. There was no lack of game, no shortage of shelter. I found everything I needed to survive — everything I had once been used to.”

His voice faltered slightly.

“But between every hunt and every step, I found myself thinking of the time I spent here… here with —”

He stopped, biting his cheek.

After a moment, he continued more quietly.

“I realized I could not return to the life I had before. A life where I only survived… but did not truly live.”

The room fell silent again.

Sylas looked at Evangeline. She had not spoken. Her face remained composed, though a few loose curls had fallen about her shoulders. Only the steady rise and fall of her breath betrayed that she was not entirely at ease.

Evangeline lowered her gaze for a moment before looking back at him.

“Then it is fortunate you returned,” she said quietly.

Her tone remained calm, yet Sylas caught the faint glisten in her eyes as the candlelight flickered.

Sylas’ lips curved faintly.

He rose and stepped toward her slowly, as though afraid the moment might break if he moved too quickly.

He took her hand in his.

“Thank you… for letting me stay.” 

Her fingers trembled slightly in his grasp at the unfamiliar contact, but she did not pull away. 

Gradually, her palm closed around his.