She has disappeared again. It frustrates him as he knows every moment not spent on the road, is another second he has to spend in this wretched state. He thinks this is getting old, and soon he'll have to have a talk with her about the dangers of waiting around to long. A little guild never hurt anyone, but it sure would go a long way to speed up the process of getting back to New York. Back to the answers, back to being special.
A breeze picks up, blowing warm air into his face as he heads toward the sound of holy bells. The ringing makes him nostalgic and his feet carry him to the origin of the sound. There's a man standing at the doorway when he crosses the threshold. They share a nod as they pass each other, though their gaze never quite meet.
He enters, eyes sweeping over row after roll of wooden benches; as his eyes adjust to the light before settling on the front… His breath catches in his throat and the sound of it bounces off the hard cold walls and the dead eyes of stone saints.
He kneels at the last row, crossing himself before taking a seat in the back. Hands folded, and head bowed; all the while his eyes never leaving the form of the woman at the front of the building. His face burns and his fingers ache from clenching too tightly. He listens to the soft murmur of Spanish prayers and feels shame for being there, even though he can not understand.
The pew squeaks as he stands to leave. Guilt, heavy in his stomach, making his pace seem slower. He hesitates in the doorway, hands clenching the frame as he leans outward whispering softly, 'Bless me, Father'.