The church mouse quietly looks on. His scuttling interrupted. The solitary figure fills an empty room. Sound has been taken by him.
Voids of the soul span the space. Distant candles dance in slow drafts from the windows. Solitary man drains the spirit of the place. In reserved breaths he moves. It is a question of waiting or wanting. He has yet to ask his query. But his tongue is loaded, ready to discharge the quandary.
“If God lives, where does his love go in the dark hours? The suffering doesn’t build character. It eats at the soul of everyone who sees it. How can you allow life to drain by the drop?!” Solitary man asks an unseen force.
The church mouse rans past him. Three pews ahead. The mouse raises on his back legs. Looking at the solitary man, he grabs a shred of a palm leaf from days gone by. A quiet mouse drops it at his feet. The mouse heads back to his nest.
The solitary man doesn’t notice. He prepares the question of cursing his God or failing body. A weak hand removes the white collar and places it beside him.