I was up before dawn, long before the priest returned to celebrate the first Mass of the day. Shaking the dust from my cloak, I made my way back down the stairs and out through the vestry.
The church was still dark, but years of living in the cellars of the Opera House had trained my eyes to see in poor light.
I walked down the aisle slowly, intending to leave. I would toss some money into the poor box near the door as payment for my shelter and walk out into the chilly morning.
As I walked through the silence, the dawn's light flooded through the window above the organ loft. I found myself drowning in a sea of purple, blue, rose, and gold.
The light was exquisite, but it was too sudden, too bright. I turned away from it.
I looked around the old church. And I was shocked by the shabbiness of it. I saw - with the eyes of the architect I once was - the chipped plaster, the cracks in the stone. I saw white stains where water had seeped inside. The place was slowly crumbling.
The jangle of keys in the lock warned me that the priest was returning. There was a side door within my reach.
I could have left then.
Instead, I flew up the stairs to the choir loft, and, pressing myself against the wall beneath the colorful window, I waited.