Malachi was tired.

The day dragged on in the way it only did when he was longing for a rest, stretching every moment to a minute, every minute to an hour. It was hot inside the church, warmed with the collective body heat of a recently-dismissed congregation and the mid-day sun outside. He sat in a pew nearest to the sacristy door, several buttons of his cassock undone near the top.

Then he heard a rattle.

Slow, unhurried, his fingers fastened the buttons back into place while he heard the door swing open, and he prepared himself to speak with the next poor soul that wanted help.

Malachi turned, but the sight of his visitor brought him to stand. Was that woman... drunk? At this time? His brows furrowed, and he watched her for a moment before he moved to the center of the aisle.

"Hello," he greeted, sensing that the woman would require some form of assistance. What kind, he wasn't sure.