Epilogue
A New Beginning
Cassian
A month later.
The rain came down in a relentless drizzle, painting the sky in muted grays and draping the cemetery in a mournful haze.
Obsidian Bay’s small cemetery seemed even smaller under the oppressive the storm, but no amount of rain could dampen the hearts gathered here.
Holding Celeste close to me, I stood under the shelter of an umbrella.
The black fabric was a weak shield against the cold rain.
Before me, the casket, polished mahogany with gold trimmings, began its slow descent into the earth.
It was a small comfort to know that Mary, the woman now lying in eternal rest, had picked it out herself years ago.
I smiled.
Practical to the very end.
The crowd of mourners surrounding the grave clutched their umbrellas keeping their heads bowed.
Beside me, Celeste’s hand trembled in mine. She hadn’t spoken much today, her grief too profound for words, but her grip was firm.
I just hoped my strength could keep her anchored as she mourned.
Everyone looked Celeste’s way, waiting for her to say her final words, but I knew that sorrow had taken them from her.
I lowered my voice. “Can I speak for you?”
Tears left her eyes. “Please.”
Clearing my throat, I drew the mourners’ attention to me.
My heart felt heavy, but my voice remained steady, carrying over the sound of the rain. “Mary Jackson was more than a mother, a friend, or a member of this community. She was a light—a bright, undeniable light—that touched everyone she met.”
A few sniffles echoed in the crowd, and there were several soft murmurs of agreement accompanying them.
I glanced at Celeste, whose gaze remained locked on the casket.
“Mrs. Jackson had a gift, a rare one,” I continued. “She could make anyone feel seen, heard, and valued. She had a big heart—one that always found room for more. Whether it was cooking meals for the homeless, organizing fundraisers for families in need, or simply lending an ear to someone who needed it, She gave freely, without expectation.”
I paused.
The rain fell heavier now, and the drops pattered against my umbrella in the softest drumbeat.
“She had great talent.” I gave them all a bittersweet smile. “She was a gifted organist and an amazing singer. I’ll never forget how she could bring the entire cathedral to life with just a few notes. Her voice could lift your spirits or bring you to your knees in gratitude.”
The image of Mary at the old organ filled my mind—her hands moving with deft precision across the keys, her voice a melody that soared higher than the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral.
“And if you knew Mary, you knew her sense of humor.” I sighed. “Every Sunday, after Mass, she’d come up to me and say, ‘You know, Father Cassian, you are my favorite white man. And I don’t really have a long list of those, so you should feel very special.’”
A ripple of laughter broke through the crowd.
The sound was a welcome relief from the tension.
Even Celeste and her sister chuckled in between sniffling.
I allowed myself a brief chuckle too and then glanced up at the somber sky as if Mary herself were watching.
“She always said it with such sincerity, too, as if she were genuinely doing me a great honor.”
The laughter subsided, replaced once more by the quiet, respectful murmurs of grief.
I straightened my shoulders, letting the umbrella tilt slightly. “She was a gift to all of us. And though it hurts to let her go, we can take comfort in knowing she’s finally at peace, reunited with her loved ones in a place where the music never stops.”
I raised a hand, signaling for a moment of prayer.
The crowd shifted.
Heads bowed in unison.
“Heavenly Father,” I began. “We gather here today to celebrate the life of Your servant, Mary Jackson, a woman who lived with purpose, kindness, and love. We ask that You welcome her into Your kingdom with open arms, for we know her heart was always filled with Your light.”
The words came naturally, flowing from a place deep within me.
As I spoke, something in the distance caught my attention. Through the curtain of rain, just beyond the rows of tombstones, a group of men stood gathered.
Their presence was unmistakable, their posture rigid, their eyes vigilant.
At the center of them stood Don Fortunato.
I blinked.
Three armed men flanked him, their weapons concealed but their presence a clear warning to any who might approach.
A fourth man held a large black umbrella over the Don’s head, shielding him from the rain.
Even from a distance, I could tell that his sharp eyes were locked on me.
Why is he here?
I forced myself to stay focused on the prayer. “Give us the strength to carry forward her legacy, to live as she did—with generosity, with humor, and with unwavering faith. And may those of us who remain, find comfort in knowing she is home with You now, free of pain, free of worry, free of sorrow.”
As the prayer ended, a soft chorus of “Amen” echoed through the crowd.
I stepped back.
Celeste whispered, “Thank you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The rain intensified, the downpour soaking the grass and darkening the freshly turned soil around the grave.
The mourners began to approach the casket, each holding a single rose. One by one, they dropped their flowers onto the polished wood.
Grief etched their faces.
But then a sharp cry broke through the solemnity.
“No! No, don’t do it!” Celeste’s sister, Denise, surged forward. “You can’t lower her! She’s not ready!”
Her hands clutched at the casket as she sobbed uncontrollably. “She’s not ready! Please!”
Several mourners stepped back.
The cemetery’s staff paused with lowering her and looked at us.
Celeste didn’t hesitate. She let go of my hand and moved toward her sister.
I went over too, making sure the umbrella guarded Celeste from the rain.
“Sis,” Celeste murmured. “It’s okay.”
“She’s not ready.” Denise’s voice broke as her husband remained a few feet back taking care of their sobbing daughters who were probably experiencing death for the first time.
Denise shook her head over and over. “She’s not ready, Celeste. How can we just leave her here?”
Celeste pulled her sister into a tight embrace, holding her as she cried. “She is ready.”
Denise sobbed.
Celeste whispered. “She’s ready because she raised us to be strong. She taught us everything we need to know. She’s watching over us now.”
Denise’s sobs quieted, as she rested her head resting against Celeste’s shoulder.
The crowd began to thin, mourners trickling away with solemn nods and quiet goodbyes.
Celeste continued to hold her.
I glanced to the right.
Don Fortunato remained far off watching.
What could he possibly want?
When Denise calmed down and returned to her husband, I handed Celeste the umbrella. “Take this. I will be right back.”
She hesitated, “You’ll get wet without the umbrella. Take this. I can use my sister’s—”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Just focus on your sister.”
She took the umbrella, and her hand brushed briefly against mine briefly before she went over to Denise.
Rain began to fall on me.
I watched them for a moment, the two sisters united in their grief, before turning my attention to the group of men in the distance.
It’s time to see why he is here.
It couldn’t have anything to do with the cathedral. The bishop as well as the sisters didn’t want anything to do with me.
Anytime anyone from the congregation saw us downtown or at the park, they immediately stopped what they were doing and walked in the opposite direction.
Whatever this meeting would bring with the Don, I was ready to face it.
And Celeste and I were grateful for it all because we were absolutely enjoying each other.
The rain soaked through my clothes as I walked toward Don Fortunato.
Chill seeped into my bones.
I didn’t care.
I just wanted to get this talk with him done so that I could return to Celeste.
Celeste was my light now, and I was her devoted servant.
Up ahead, the Don stood unmoving, his piercing gaze fixed on me as I approached.
His men shifted slightly. They were probably resting their hands on their concealed weapons.
The rain drummed against the umbrella above the Don’s head, the only sound accompanying the steady rhythm of my footsteps.
I stopped a few feet away.
Don Fortunato flicked his hand and another man rushed over with an umbrella and placed it over me, making sure no more rain hit me.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
His sharp gaze pierced through the misty air. “Father Cassian—”
“No, Don Fortunato.” I shook my head. “I am no longer a priest. You can just say Cassian.”
“Collar or no collar, you will always be Father Cassian to me.” He leaned his head to the right. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Please let me know what I can do for your fiancé to help her in this sad time.”
The line of my jaw twitched.
Don Fortunato had a way of knowing things before everyone else. I’d just proposed to Celest last week. We’d kept the news quiet so that all focus could remain on sending her mother home.
I swallowed. “Thank you. At this time, she has all she needs.”
“I heard a rumor,” he began, his tone conversational, almost amused. “They say you bought a mansion just a few minutes from mine. True?”
“It’s true.”
“So many rooms.”
“My fiancée is with child.”
His dark eyes sparked with interest. “Already?”
“Yes.”
The thought of Celeste carrying my child still filled me with a sense of awe and disbelief.
Don Fortunato smiled. “A child is a beautiful thing, Father.”
I pursed my lips, saying nothing, letting him steer the conversation. With Don Fortunato, it was often easier to let him take the lead than to resist.
“St. Perseverance got rid of you without consulting me. How did that happen?”
“They had good reason.”
He shrugged. “Oh, I know what you did. They told me everything. But let me tell you something—I don’t care. The new priest? I don’t like him. Every Sunday I go to sleep in the pews. That’s not a good look for my troops. And I’m now planning on skipping confessionals because he’s boring. ”
I couldn’t help it; a small smile broke through. “Confessionals aren’t meant to entertain.”
He scoffed, “When I’m spending money, they are. Confessionals with you were philosophical. They made me think for days. Sometimes. . .I even didn’t kill a person because of you.”
I blinked.
“With him? It’s fucking boring. I want to kill many after talking to him.”
I widened my eyes. “What do you want, Don Fortunato?”
His face went stern. “In a week, you’ll get a visit from the Bishop begging to take you back. I figure you’ll need this week to help your fiancée mourn her loss.”
My gaze drifted to Celeste, who was still consoling her sister near the casket. Her strength, even in the face of such sorrow, made my chest tighten with love for her.
Don Fortunato’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I want you to take back the position.”
I turned to him. “I’m not the man I should be to serve in that capacity anymore.”
He studied me for a moment. “Did you like helping people love God?”
“I did.”
“Then come back, now you’ll just have a beautiful wife and a healthy kid. People love a priest with a heart and a past. You’ve always had both. Now you’ll have a family, too.”
“The congregation may not like—”
“The congregation will do what the fuck I say, and the nuns and Bishop too. Or. . .”
“Or?”
“There will be blood.”
Tension gathered in my shoulders. “I do not want people to die due to me.”
“None will die. All will listen. And even more, God wants you to return. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have sent me.” His words struck something deep within me, a flicker of hope igniting in the place I’d thought extinguished.
Some days, I did miss my priestly duties. Not just the rituals or the sermons, but the quiet moments that came after—the way a person’s eyes would soften with relief after unburdening themselves in confession, or the gratitude in a trembling voice as they whispered, “Thank you, Father.”
I missed the solace I’d once found in the steady rhythm of prayer, the connection I’d felt to something larger than myself.
I missed guiding the lost, offering light to those stumbling in the dark.
But even as I reminisced, a pang of something darker twisted in my chest—a shadow of the man I had been, a man who had believed so fervently, so blindly, that he had denied himself the very things he now craved most.
I had buried that part of me, convinced it was incompatible with the man I was becoming, the man I needed to be.
Yet, Don Fortunato’s words stirred something I couldn’t ignore.
Could it be possible to reconcile both halves of my soul?
To be a man of God while also being a man who loved, who desired, who chose passion over penance?
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
“Come back.” Don Fortunato watched me. “Give us a month of service and then we can talk and see if you want to stay. That’s fair. Right?”
“It is.”
“Good. Because the new guy has to go.”
Before I could respond, he added, “By the way, I want to be the godfather to your child.”
The corner of my mouth twitched with amusement at his audacity.
He winked and turned around to leave. “Have a good day, Cassian.”
With that, he walked off, his umbrella shielding him from the rain as his men followed close behind.
I watched him go, my thoughts swirling as I stood there.
His man continued to hold my umbrella.
As I turned back toward Celeste, still holding her sister close, I felt a strange sense of clarity.
Perhaps, I wasn’t the man I used to be.
Perhaps, I never would be again.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t serve, couldn’t heal, couldn’t lead.
Okay. . .I’ll do it. I’ll return.
The Don’s man escorted me back to Celeste, and then left.
Thankfully, the rain began to ease as we headed to our car.
The clouds even parted just enough to reveal a faint sliver of light breaking through the stormy sky.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough—a quiet reminder that even the darkest moments couldn’t last forever.
Could I really have it all? Could I be a priest, father, and husband?
I smiled and held Celeste’s hand.
As we continued, Celeste had her other hand resting on her belly, our future growing within her.
Even though she was sad about her mother, she smiled. It was a look that could bring a man to his knees, and yet, it made me stand taller.
I am blessed. No matter what comes next, I’m ready. For us. For everything.