Malachi allowed Mister Tully the time he needed, lingering patiently where he had first stepped out. When he finally sat, Malachi followed at a delay and did the same, leaving a few feet of space between them on the bench.

Loss such as his... it had never been difficult for Malachi to understand why so many turned their backs on the faith. Why so many poor souls cursed the heavens, cursed the earth; why it was easier for someone who had never faced such tragedies to remain steadfast in their beliefs.

There was a brief silence before he spoke.

"It is man's nature to sin. To question why, to go against, to... do what we must to survive."

He wanted to tell him that he understood, that he knew what that desperation felt like. What that abandonment felt like. But in telling him anything, he would tell him too much.

"Your hands have made me and shaped me, together all around; yet You destroy me. Isn't it strange how God's hands form us out of sin? Like clay, we're molded and made from that sin into something useful, or beautiful, or pleasing, and given purpose in our new shapes. How much care and effort went into our creation, yet we're so easily dropped and shattered. We blame the hands for not holding us tighter, even when they try to align the broken pieces."

Malachi breathed out a quiet sigh, and added, "I cannot glue them back together for you, of course. I can only help guide them into place, should you wish to be mended. If a meal and a roof over your head is enough for you, then you are always welcomed in the church."