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.

Sister Agnes stood at the church entrance the next morning and studied her handiwork. The sign looked perfect against the iron railing, each gold letter catching the dawn light exactly as she'd planned. Now came the harder part—she needed to learn what people wanted, what would actually bring them back through those doors. She'd spent forty years serving this church, but she'd never had to convince anyone to come. They just came. She adjusted her habit and walked down the steps, past her sign, and out onto the sidewalk where real people walked to real places. If she was going to fill those pews, she needed to understand why they'd emptied in the first place. Three blocks from St. Catherine's, she found a weathered wooden gazebo in a small park. The paint peeled in long strips, and vines crawled up the posts. A woman sat on the bench inside, feeding pigeons from a paper bag. Sister Agnes walked up the gazebo steps and stood in the entrance. The woman looked up but didn't speak. Sister Agnes cleared her throat. "I'm from St. Catherine's," she said. "I'd like to know why people stopped coming to church." The woman tossed another handful of bread. "You never asked us what we needed," she said. "You just told us when to sit and when to stand." Sister Agnes felt her jaw tighten, ready to explain how traditions mattered, how order served a purpose. But she stopped herself. She'd come to listen, not to defend. She sat down on the bench and watched the pigeons eat. This was going to be harder than she thought. Back at St. Catherine's that afternoon, Sister Agnes walked around to the side yard where weeds pushed through the gravel. She found what she was looking for—the old baptism pool, weathered stone dark with age. It had been here since 1887, built into the ground itself. The church used to perform outdoor ceremonies here, back when families lined up for such things. She knelt down and pulled weeds from around the edge, her bone fingers working methodically. The woman's words echoed in her skull—you never asked us what we needed. Perhaps people didn't want to come inside anymore. Perhaps they needed something different, something outside these walls. She brushed dirt from the stone rim and examined the basin. It would take work to restore it, but it could serve again. She stood and dusted off her habit. Tomorrow she would clean it properly. Tomorrow she would start building something new.