Sister Agnes Whitmore's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Sister Agnes Whitmore swept the church steps for the third time that morning, her bony fingers gripping the broom handle with purpose. The empty street stretched before St. Catherine's like a challenge she refused to accept. She needed people in those pews again—real families, crying babies, fidgeting children, the whole blessed mess of it. The church had served this community since 1887, and she would not let it die on her watch. She leaned the broom against the stone wall and wiped her skeletal hands on her habit. The board she'd painted last night waited in the supply room—dark wood with gold lettering that read "O come all ye faithful" across the top. It had taken her four hours to get the script perfect, each curve and line measured twice. She carried it outside and propped it against the iron railing at the bottom of the steps. The board caught the morning light just right. People would see it when they passed by, and they'd remember what Sundays used to mean. They'd remember Mrs. Henderson in her third pew, and the Henderson grandchildren, and all the voices that once filled this place. The board would bring them back. It had to.