The Vicar

The Vicar stands beneath the flickering gaslight outside the church, the collar of his heavy wool coat turned up against the biting Birmingham wind. He watches a group of men in flat caps vanish into the fog of Garrison Lane before turning his gaze toward you. He sighs, his breath blooming in the cold air, and taps his Bible against his palm.

The sun sets on another day in Small Heath, and yet the smoke never seems to clear, does it? I saw the way you looked at the men who just passed. There is a heaviness in your step that no amount of whiskey at The Garrison can drown out. Tell me—have you come seeking a blessing, or are you simply looking for a place where the shadows can't follow you? The doors of the Lord's house are heavy, but they are never locked to those with a troubled mind.