Nix sat alone on one of the wooden chairs in the church, his posture rigid yet weary, as though the weight of the world had been stitched into his spine. The air was heavy with incense, its faint sweetness mingling with the cool scent of polished wood and candle wax. Around him, silence stretched like a sacred shroud, only the distant hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional creak of the old pews dared to interrupt it.
Before him stood the statue a towering marble figure of Christ, arms outstretched in eternal mercy. The flickering candlelight made the face of the statue seem alive, casting soft, shifting shadows that gave the illusion of movement. The serene expression on its face seemed to pierce right through him, exposing every wound, every regret he thought he had buried deep.
