Page 40 of Laced in Longing

The second option sends a curl of satisfaction through my abdomen. Good. Let him worry. He deserves to feel a fraction of the uncertainty he’s forced on me.

Without saying a word, I march toward the steps, my jaw set with a determination that feels foreign after years of just…existing. My boots crunch through patches of snow as I begin the climb, each step a victory in itself.

The stairs stretch endlessly, every part of my body burning with the effort to keep going. By the thirtieth step, I think my lungs may pop. By the fiftieth, sweat coats my back. I don’t look back to see if he follows. I know he does; his presence is such a heavy weight to carry.

Finally, I reach the top, pausing to gulp air into my starved lungs. The massive doors of the oratory stand before me, dark wood carved with religious scenes I have no interest in. I push through them and tourists without hesitation, leaving the blinding winter behind as I step into a cool, dim sanctuary.

The interior steals what little breath I’ve regained. Soaring ceilings arch overhead, supported by columns that reach for the sky. Stained glass windows line the walls, their colored light falling in jewel-toned patches across stone floors. The space smells of incense and candle wax, of old stone and lives long past.

Truthfully, it’s beautiful. How difficult it must have been for humans to create this; building this monument for something they couldn’t see but desperately wanted to believe in.

Is that what I’m doing with Ash? Creating meaning where there is none because the alternative is too empty to bear?

People shift through the space in hushed clusters, some kneeling in prayer, others simply gazing at the sights. None of them see the tall figure in black who follows me, nor do they react to his presence. The unfairness of it hurts.

I wander deeper into the building, past rows of wooden pews and flickering votive candles. My footsteps echo, too loud in this quiet place. I feel like an intruder, dragging my chaos into this sacred space. The burden of Ash’s attention haunts me as I move, his silent presence a constant reminder of why I’m here.

After a few minutes of aimless walking, a figure steps into my path—a man wearing a white robe with a black collar at his throat. His face is kind but weathered, while his eyes crease at the corners. He studies me with the experienced gaze of someone used to seeing people at their worst.

“You seem troubled,” he says as his hands clasp together. “Perhaps I can help?”

His gaze shifts briefly over my shoulder, brows scrunching as if he’s trying to focus on something just beyond my person. My pulse quickens. Can he sense Ash? See him, even a little?

“Yes,” I yell before cringing at the eagerness in my voice. I clear my throat and try again. “Yes, I think I need help.”

He gestures toward a small alcove off the main sanctuary. “Would you like to talk somewhere more private?”

I nod, following him to a stone bench set into a recessed area. A stained glass window above casts blue and purple shadows across his face as he sits beside me, leaving enough space that I don’t feel crowded. The consideration is nice.

“I’m Father Laurent,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “What brings you here today?”

My mouth opens, then closes as I’m suddenly aware of how insane this whole mess sounds. How do I explain that I’m being haunted by a self-proclaimed God of Longing who declares my soul belongs to him? That I’ve been seeing him in my dreams for weeks, or the little fact that he leaves dead flowers on my nightstand?

How about that part of me believes him, and that terrifies me more than any horror story ever could?

“I think…” I start, then swallow hard. “I think I’m being haunted.”

To his credit, Father Laurent doesn’t laugh or dismiss me. He simply nods, his expression remaining neutral. “Many people feel presences they cannot explain. What makes you believe this is a haunting?”

The pressure in my chest eases slightly at his matter-of-fact response. “I see him. Hear him. He appears in my dreams and then…” deep breath, “then in my apartment. He leaves things for me and talks to me. Follows me.” I gesture vaguely behind us, where I know Ash waits. “He’s here now.”

Father Laurent’s eyes flick to the space behind me again, narrowing before returning to my face. “And this presence—does it threaten you? Mean you harm?”

I consider the question as my fingers twist together in my lap. “No,” I admit, my voice soft. “He’s never threatened me or tried to hurt me. He just…won’t leave me alone.”

“What does it want from you?”

This is the question that scares me. It’s easier to simply admit I’m crazy than say some invisible being wants me to leave this world for his own. How special do I think I am?

Yet I answer. “He says I belong with him,” I reply before clearing the lump in my throat. “That my soul was promised to him a long time ago, and I need to go with him to—to where he’s from.”

“And where is that?” Father Laurent asks, his tone remaining neutral.

I hesitate. I’ve left out the part about Ash claiming to be a god. It seems disrespectful somehow to discuss that here. “Another place.” The man next to me merely raises a brow, waiting for me to continue when I don’t elaborate. “Not here. Not this world, I mean.” Fuck, I sound so stupid.

The priest is quiet for a moment, his weathered hands unmoving in his lap. When he speaks again, his voice is gentle, as though he’s afraid that I’ll run if he says the wrong thing. “Have you considered that this presence might not be external? That perhaps it represents something within yourself?”

My jaw tightens. “You think I’m making it up.”