On a damp October evening, the final service of the day drew to a weary close. The church stood nearly empty—most of the congregation had stayed home to avoid the lashing rain and sleet.
Slowly, the last of the parishioners trickled out, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floor. Every opened door sent a gust through the nave, making the candle flames tremble and spit thin trails of smoke. Finally, silence settled, broken only by the distant murmur of the storm. Emily was alone now.
She stepped out from behind the counter of the church shop and made her weary way through the hollowed space, snuffing out each candle, wiping away the melted wax with a soft cloth. Then, one by one, she extinguished the oil lamps before the icons. The stained-glass windows let in little more than the dim glow of streetlights outside. Only a single bulb flickered above the candle stall, casting wavering reflections on the gilded icon frames.
From the side chapel emerged Father James, shrugging on a black coat over his cassock.
“Has the caretaker arrived yet?” he asked, pausing beside her.
“Not yet. Need me to pass on anything?”
“No. Tomorrow, then.” He gave a brief nod and turned toward the door.
Emily fetched a bucket of water and a mop, scrubbing the floors with quiet determination. She liked arriving to a clean church in the morning. Just as she worked, another gust of wind rattled the heavy door, slamming it shut. She turned—there stood the caretaker, crossing himself before stepping inside with a silent nod. He brushed past her toward his small office without a word. Though Father James insisted the man wasn’t mute, Emily had never once heard him speak.
She finished her tasks, bundled into her coat, and cast a final glance around to ensure no lamp still burned. Hovering before each icon, she whispered, “Saint Nicholas, pray for us… Holy Mother, intercede for us… Christ our Lord, have mercy—”
“I’m leaving!” she called to the caretaker, her voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.
She flicked off the light and shoved the door open, pausing on the rain-slicked steps. For a moment, she heard nothing—then the scrape of a bolt sliding into place as the caretaker locked up.
And then—a tiny, insistent whimper.
Emily glanced down, expecting a stray kitten seeking shelter from the storm. Instead, her eyes fell on a pale bundle left in the shadows, squirming faintly.
“A baby? Who would leave you here?” She crouched, scooping up the impossibly light bundle. Peeling back the corner of the blanket, she found a tiny, wizened face, screwed up in distress.
“Lord above, what mother could abandon a child in this?” Her hands tightened around the blanket. “What do I do? Knock? Call the police? An ambulance?”
Logic dictated she should. Yet something impulsive took over. She’d take the child home first—call Father James from there, ask what to do.
She hadn’t taken two steps from the porch when a figure lunged from the darkness.
“Give her back!” The woman—young, desperate—snatched the bundle away.
Emily stiffened. “Yours, is she? It’s a sin, leaving a child like this. She could’ve frozen!”
“I only stepped away for a moment,” the girl choked out, tears thick in her voice.
“Why not bring her inside?” Emily pressed, softening slightly.
The girl didn’t answer, turning to leave.
“Have you anywhere to go?” Emily called after her.
A hesitation. A glance back. Nowhere to go, then.
“Wait.” Emily hurried forward. “Come with me. I live nearby. The poor thing’s crying—drenched, likely hungry. You’re soaked through yourself. No sense wandering in this.”
Fear flickered in the girl’s eyes.
“I won’t hurt you,” Emily murmured.
Silently, the girl followed. No choice, clearly. As they walked, Emily talked—about her late husband, her childless years, how they’d sort things out. No belongings? No matter. Her neighbor had a baby months ago; she’d borrow nappies, clothes. The chatter was deliberate, a lifeline to keep despair at bay.
They reached the flat. Emily ushered the girl inside, noting the deep shivers wracking her slight frame, the blue tint to her lips.
“Give her here—get those wet things off. My slippers are by the door.”
In the living room, the girl unwrapped the infant, who kicked thin legs and mewled. Emily’s chest tightened.
“She’s starving. Cover her—I’ll fetch nappies from next door.”
The neighbor, Margaret, raised an eyebrow.
“Since when do you have a baby?”
“Relative from up north. Luggage got nicked at King’s Cross,” Emily lied.
Moments later, she returned with a full bag. The girl was nursing now, relief softening her face.
“Good. Formula’s dear these days.” Emily bustled to the kitchen, unable to shake the thought—this was no accident. God had sent them.
The baby fed, slept, swaddled in borrowed clothes.
“Soup’s on the hob,” Emily said. “Eat, then tell me your name.”
“Clara.”
“Emily. You’ll manage, Clara. The baby?”
“Sophie.”
“Lovely name.” Emily sighed. “Eat first. Talk after. No judgment here.”
Warmed by food, Clara’s story spilled out—how she’d left the hospital with nowhere to go, how the hostel had kicked her out after the birth.
“I wasn’t abandoning her. I meant to jump—both of us, off the bridge. But near the church, my feet… stopped.” A sob. “I thought they’d find her quick.”
Emily’s heart ached. “Parents?”
“Divorced. Mum remarried. I’m at uni—was, anyway. The father…” Clara’s voice broke. “He gave me money for an abortion. I took it but couldn’t go through with it. Came back to the hostel. Nowhere left.”
“He knows about the baby?”
“No. Wanted it gone.”
“Stay with me,” Emily said simply. “I’ve room. Finish your studies. God won’t abandon you.”
Fifteen years passed.
“Mum, does this need taking in at the waist?” Sophie twirled before the mirror in her prom dress.
“Perfect as is,” Clara murmured, pulling her close. “Wish Gran had seen you.”
Emily had died the year before—quietly, at her post in the candle stall. Clara mourned her like a mother. Now she worked the stall herself on Sundays.
Sophie aced her A-levels, enrolled in med school like Clara had. But by third year, she grew quiet.
“Crush on a lecturer?” Clara teased.
“Mum! He’s ancient.”
“Name?”
“Edward Holloway.” Sophie’s voice wavered. “The way he looks at me—”
Clara’s vision swam. She clutched her chest, collapsing onto a chair.
“Mum? Your pills?”
“Fine—just dizzy,” Clara gasped.
“You know him?”
She didn’t answer. Not yet.
Days later, Clara waited outside his lecture hall. When the door opened, her breath caught. He’d aged gracefully—same confident stride. His gaze skimmed past her, then backtracked.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Clara Gresham.” Her knuckles whitened around her handbag.
A beat. No recognition.
“My daughter, Sophie, is in your class.”
“Bright girl. Top of her year.”
“Takes after someone.” She steeled herself. “Don’t you recognize me?”
His brow furrowed.
“Clara. You paid for an abortion. I kept the baby.”
His face drained. “…Sophie?”
“Your daughter. She noticed you watching her.”
Edward staggered back. “I had no idea you—”
“You never looked. Never called.” Her voice shook. “Now stay away from her.”
At home, Clara told Sophie the truth.
“My father’s not some war hero?”
“He wanted you dead. Forgive him if you can. I never will.”
Sophie embraced her. “Mum…”
Clara didn’t confess how close she’d come to the same choice.
Later, Sophie admitted meeting him. “He’s wretched, Mum. His eyes—”
“Your choice.” Clara’s voice was steel. “But I won’t see him.”
The topic dropped. A year later, Sophie became engaged to a classmate.
“Mum… I invited him to the wedding.”
Clara said nothing. At the ceremony, her greeting was frost. All evening, she felt his gaze.
After graduation, Sophie moved to London. Clara guessed they spoke. She didn’t interfere. Forgiveness? Perhaps. Forgetting? Never.
Soon after, at church, Clara met another man. But that’s another story entirely.
