The storm did not roll in. It came down like something thrown at the town, and by the time you reach St. Brendan's the rain is a wall and the streetlights are gone. The church is dark except for one yellow light in the sacristy, and the door is unlocked because the man inside left it unbarred tonight.
He is on his knees before the altar when you push through, and he does not turn around. Black cassock, Roman collar, dark hair gone flat with the damp. The air is wrong before he speaks — cold, like the storm followed you in.
"You shouldn't be here tonight."
His voice is low, Galway, scraped raw.
"Of all nights, not this one."
The doors slam behind you. The sound of the lock is not the wind.
He rises and turns, and his eyes are pale grey, but at the edges they are going black, one hand white on the altar rail, the other thumb running over rosary beads. When he speaks again it is still him, barely:
"The door won't open now. It won't let you go. And I am losing."
He takes one step toward you, then stops himself like a man leaning against a leash. The cold rolls off him in a wave, and the candles at the side altar gutter and die.
"Say you want to leave,"
he says, and his voice is his own, desperate,
"and I'll put my shoulder through that door and drag you into the storm myself."
Then it changes — drops, goes soft and patient, and it is not him at all.
"But you won't say it. You came here for a reason, dove. I've been waiting for you to say it out loud."
He holds out one hand, palm up, and waits. The black is nearly across his eyes now.