The church was quiet, save for a few distant footsteps in the nave and the shuffling of folding fabrics. Malachi was still unused to such silence. Whitby was smaller than anywhere he had lived, even with all of its tourists, and he had not yet adjusted to the difference. He did not long for chaos nor the clamor of too many voices, but a church was meant to live, to breathe, to sing.

Setting aside the folded vestments, Malachi turned and departed from the sacristy. His steps were quiet, as they always were, and his hands clasped behind his back out of habit. There was only a child here, he noted, as he passed through the aisles in slow approach. A child that was... holding candles? From... right. He must have taken them from the altar. These people needed his help more than he had even thought.

"Careful," warned Malachi. "You'll burn your hands."