She’s wearing a modest skirt and cardigan, a silver cross necklace catching the light.
When she opens her mouth to sing, the sound that emerges makes me close my eyes in appreciation.
Her soprano is pure, the kind of voice that could make angels weep. She moves through the audition piece with technical precision and genuine emotion, and I find myself nodding before she’s even finished.
“That was extraordinary,” I tell her, making notes on my clipboard. “You’re definitely in the choir.”
Her face lights up with a smile that transforms her from awkward teenager to confident. “Really? Thank you so much, Brother Moreau!”
“Please, call me Elijah during rehearsals.” I gesture for her to sit beside me at the piano. “Have you had formal training?”
She shakes her head, moving closer than necessary. I can smell her perfume, something floral and young. “Just what my mom taught me. She used to sing professionally.”
We talk about music theory, about breathing techniques, and about the pieces we’ll be performing for Christmas Mass.
Sarah leans in when I demonstrate proper posture, her body angling toward mine.
I’m patient, encouraging, standing close to show her how to support her breath from her diaphragm.
“Tell me about Paris,” Sarah says suddenly, her voice breathless. “I heard you studied there.”
I describe the conservatory, the city, and the music that fills every corner.
She listens with rapt attention, asking questions about my life, my training, my journey to St. Michael’s.
I answer honestly, enjoying her genuine interest in music and art.
When the audition ends, she lingers at the door. “Thank you for today. You’re an amazing teacher.”
“You’re a talented student,” I reply, already turning back to my notes. “I’ll see you at rehearsal next week.”
She leaves, and I don’t think about her again. My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus.
Charlie’s stress-baking. Come to the kitchen.
I smile, gathering my sheet music.
The thought of Charlie in the kitchen, flour dusting her dress, her hands working dough with practiced precision, makes my body respond immediately.
I adjust myself, trying to think of anything except the way she tastes.
The parish hall is empty when I return to collect my things.
I’m organizing sheet music when I notice something tucked between the pages of a hymnal. A folded piece of paper, the handwriting careful and feminine.
I open it, expecting a note from Charlie or maybe a prayer request someone left behind.
Instead, I read.Thank you for today. You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. I can’t wait for next rehearsal. –S.
My stomach drops. It’s from Sarah Chen.
The note is innocent enough on the surface.
Just a teenager thanking her choir director.
But something about the phrasing, the intensity, makes warning bells sound in the back of my mind.
I stare at the careful handwriting, at the way she’s dotted the ‘i’ in ‘amazing’ with a small heart, and feel the first whisper of unease.
