Daniel wrung out the mop, wiped down the last strip of tile, and leaned the handle against the wall. The bleach stung his nose, but the floor gleamed. With a quiet sigh, he rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the shower room.
The water was hot—hot enough to sting his skin, hot enough to let the steam blur the mirror. By the time he stepped out, toweling his hair dry, the knot in his chest felt just a little looser.
He made his way down the side hall toward the rectory, passing the church's small dining area. Three nuns stood around a table, sorting through cardboard boxes overflowing with canned goods and fresh bread. He recognized them instantly—triplets, the only nuns in the church.
"Sister Amara. Sister Beatrice. Sister Celeste," Daniel greeted with a small smile.
"Daniel," Sister Amara said warmly, brushing flour from her habit. "You're looking a bit less like a drowned cat today."
Sister Beatrice chuckled. "Still needs a haircut, though."
"I like it," Sister Celeste said, her voice softer but playful. "Gives him that tragic poet look."
Daniel grinned, moving toward one of the boxes. "Here, let me help you put these away—"
A hand on his chest stopped him. Sister Amara shook her head. "Not today. The Father is waiting for you."
"I can be quick—"
"No," Sister Beatrice cut in. "Go on. He told us to send you the moment we saw you."
Celeste tilted her head toward the far hallway. "Third door on the right. And… don't keep him waiting."
Daniel raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Alright, alright. I'll go."
He stepped into the hall. The evening light from the high windows cast long shadows across the polished floor. Halfway down, his eyes caught on a suit of armor in a display alcove—polished steel, a red cross on the breastplate, the hilt of a longsword resting under gauntleted hands.
It was… beautiful. The kind of thing you could imagine a knight wearing in some long-forgotten war. He studied the etchings in the pauldrons, the small dents that spoke of battles past.
What Daniel didn't see was the faint shift in the visor, the way the helmet turned almost imperceptibly to follow him as he walked away.
He reached the third door and knocked.
"Enter," came the voice from inside.
The office was larger than he expected—and almost bare. No shelves of books, no clutter, only a wide desk, a single Bible on top, and on the far wall, mounted in plain sight, a sword in its scabbard.
Father Gabriel Moretti sat behind the desk, pen moving over the pages of a thick leather-bound ledger. He didn't look up.
"Sit," he said simply.
Daniel obeyed, the chair creaking softly under his weight. The sound of the pen scratching paper filled the silence. Ten minutes passed before Gabriel finally spoke—still without lifting his gaze from the page.
"Daniel Cross. Top of your class through primary and secondary school. Captain of the track team. State-level decathlete. Perfect attendance for over a decade. Graduated with honors from Columbia. Hired by a Wall Street firm within two months of graduation."
Gabriel turned a page, his tone never wavering.
"Then… fired for embellishing funds."
Daniel's head snapped up. "That's—"
"I know," Gabriel interrupted, still writing. "You didn't do it. You tried to blow the whistle on the men who control what happens to the money of very powerful people. I see now why even with your degree, you can't even get a regular job. They've tarnished your record, ruined your credit, left you with no options, no savings."
The pen stopped. Gabriel set it down, finally meeting Daniel's eyes.
"So tell me, son… what's next in life for you? Where do you go from here?"
Daniel sat back, thinking of the sermon he'd heard earlier. "Today's sermon—you spoke about how man was made of clay. To be honest, Father, my credentials mean nothing now. I am here as clay to be molded in any way I may be of service. My body is strong, my mind is sharp. Teach me what needs to be done and I can learn. I am willing to learn. I just… want a chance to turn my life around."
Gabriel studied him for a long moment, then pressed a button beneath the desk. "Sister Celeste," he said into the small intercom grill, "take this young man to a room upstairs so he may rest in peace."
He looked back to Daniel. "Be in the yard behind the church at 3 a.m. Wear something you can move around in. No questions."
"Yes, Father."
The door opened and Sister Celeste stepped inside, smiling. "Come on. I'll show you your room."
They walked upstairs together. The guest room was modest—a bed, a small desk, a dresser—but clean and quiet.
Daniel set his towel on the bed. "What's going to happen at three a.m.?"
Celeste's lips curved into a beautiful, knowing smile. "Just get some rest. Stop by the kitchen in the morning for breakfast… after you're done."
"Done what?"
Her smile deepened. "You'll see."
She closed the door gently, leaving Daniel alone with the soft creak of the old building settling for the night.