The Fall of the Cloth

The sanctuary had fallen silent in his absence. Where once Arthur’s voice had echoed through the halls—delivering sermons, offering prayers, comforting mourners—now there was only silence and shadows. The church remained physically intact, but spiritually, he felt its heart was withering with him.

A week had passed since the hearing. The final verdict was due any day. His every waking moment was filled with tension so thick it could be sliced with a consecrated blade. Though technically confined to his quarters, Arthur had begun taking quiet midnight walks in the garden behind the rectory. It was the only place he could breathe without drowning.

Underneath the garden’s lone fig tree, Arthur knelt each night, whispering prayers that felt increasingly hollow. He could not feel God anymore—only judgment, only distance.

“Why give me love,” he murmured into the night, “if You only planned to punish me for it?”

A part of him feared the answer. Another feared there would be none.

---

Meanwhile, Isabella had become a ghost within her own life. She no longer came to mass. She stopped singing with the choir. Her once joyful aura now seemed permanently shrouded in mourning. The townspeople whispered. Not cruelly, but with the sort of curiosity reserved for scandal.

She knew what they said: She was the reason Father Arthur Harper fell. She seduced him. She ruined him.

And she let them believe it. It was safer than the truth.

The truth was she loved him. Desperately. Irrevocably. Enough to destroy them both.

She would’ve stood beside him through the trial, through exile, through flames—if only he had asked. But he hadn’t. He had obeyed the letter, severed contact, and faded into silence like a ghost at confession.

Still, she couldn’t stay away forever.

On a rainy evening, cloaked in a navy wool coat, she approached the side door of the church. She knew he wouldn’t be in the sanctuary, but her heart led her there nonetheless. She didn’t enter to find him. She entered to remember.

She stood before the altar, tracing the edge of the mahogany pulpit where Arthur had once preached. Her fingers trembled. The memory of his voice lingered in the rafters, carried on dust and divinity.

A soft cough echoed from the shadows.

She turned.

Michael.

His gaze softened the moment he saw her.

"Isabella," he said quietly.

"Is he okay?"

Michael didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward and sat at the front pew.

"He’s... breathing. But not okay."

She sat beside him. “Will they defrock him?”

Michael sighed. “That decision belongs to the bishop and the higher council. But the weight of it... I believe they will. His past, the scandal, the attempted escape—it paints a picture they can’t ignore.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “He never touched me inappropriately. We never—”

“I know,” Michael said. “I believe you. But love, even when chaste, when born from defiance of a vow... it still bears consequences.”

“I was willing to face those consequences,” she said, voice cracking. “But he shut me out.”

Michael didn’t reply.

She stood. “Tell him something for me.”

“What?”

“Tell him I would’ve run with him. I would’ve left everything for him. But not if he sees me as his shame.”

She turned to go.

“Isabella,” Michael said softly.

She paused.

“He doesn’t see you as shame. He sees you as salvation. That’s why he’s staying away. He thinks he’s protecting you from his ruin.”

She closed her eyes, nodded, and walked into the rain.

---

The letter arrived at dawn.

Arthur opened it with shaking hands, standing barefoot on cold tile.

It says:

> To Father Arthur Callen,

After review by the ecclesiastical council and in consultation with diocesan leadership, we regret to inform you that your status as a priest has been revoked. You are hereby laicized, with immediate effect.

You are to vacate Church property within 72 hours and relinquish all clerical garments and symbols of office.

Arthur read it again.

And again.

It didn’t feel real.

His collar, the robe, the life of sacrifice and devotion—it was gone. Torn from him like the tearing of a veil. And beneath that veil lay a man now stripped of purpose.

He packed slowly. Methodically. Each item was a piece of his former self: the rosary beads from seminary, his leather-bound Bible annotated with years of sermons, the silver crucifix gifted by Michael after ordination. He held it in his hand now, staring at it like a forgotten relic.

He slipped it into the box.

Outside, dawn broke in quiet defiance. As he stepped into the crisp morning air, duffel in hand, a figure approached him by the gate.

Michael.

Arthur met his eyes. “You came to watch the fall?”

Michael flinched. “I came to say goodbye.”

Arthur’s face twisted. “You turned me in.”

“I know.”

“You broke me.”

“I tried to save you.”

“You failed.”

Michael said nothing. Then, he pulled something from his coat and handed it to Arthur.

It was a letter. Sealed in cream parchment.

“From Isabella,” Michael said.

Arthur stared at it. “Why would she write to me now?”

“Because she needed to say goodbye properly.”

Arthur took it but didn’t open it. Not yet.

“I have nowhere to go,” he admitted.

Michael nodded. “There’s a retreat center up north. Old monastery, turned into a sanctuary for fallen clergy. I told them about you. They’ll take you in.”

Arthur scoffed. “You’ve planned everything, haven’t you?”

“I planned for you to live,” Michael said. “Not just survive. Live.”

Arthur looked at the church one last time.

He didn’t say goodbye to the building. It wasn’t home anymore.

He walked away.

---

The monastery was nothing like he expected. Nestled between pine woods and a slow-moving river, it smelled of incense, firewood, and wild mint. It was quiet—unnervingly so—but peaceful. The monks who lived there barely spoke unless necessary. Their silence was not emptiness, but presence. Like each moment was held in reverence.

Arthur slept the first two days. Grief manifested in exhaustion. On the third morning, he woke before dawn and finally opened Isabella’s letter.

It says:

> Arthur,

I wanted to wait, but Michael told me I might not get the chance.

I know you left because you thought it was noble. Because you thought keeping me at arm’s length would shield me from the judgment you were facing. But love doesn’t work that way.

Love walks through the fire with you.

I would’ve faced anything beside you. The exile. The scandal. The loss of everything we knew. If you had simply let me.

But I understand now that you didn’t believe you deserved that kind of love.

And maybe that’s the tragedy.

We both believed in a God who forgives all things. But you couldn’t forgive yourself.

I want you to know—I don’t regret loving you.

And I never will.

If the day comes when your heart is whole again, and you still think of me...

You’ll find me where the fig tree meets the river.

Always, Isabella

Arthur pressed the letter to his chest and wept. This time, not out of shame—but release. She still loved him. Despite everything. In the silence that followed, a bird sang outside his window.

And he finally understood that though he had fallen from grace, he had not fallen beyond redemption.