Sister Agnes swept the sanctuary steps at dawn, humming as if the pews behind her were full. They were not. They had not been for some time. Still, she told herself the faithful were only delayed, and today she would bring them back. She had set out a fresh invitation board by the path, painted in her best hand. She carried her bucket inside and stopped short. Dust lay thick on every bench. Cobwebs draped the rafters like gray lace. A pigeon flapped from a high beam and shot out through a broken window. Agnes pressed a hand to her chest. No wonder the two strangers yesterday had peeked in and hurried away. She rolled up her sleeves. She beat the cushions until the air went brown. She scrubbed the tile, polished the wood, and wiped each candlestick twice. She dragged the saint's statue with its purple scarf closer to the door, so its kind face would greet the next visitor. By afternoon the sanctuary gleamed. Agnes stepped outside to admire her invitation board and waited. A woman slowed on the path. She looked at the sign. She looked at the open door. She stepped inside. The woman sat down in the front pew. Agnes nearly wept. Then, from above, the old bell tower gave a single cracked groan, and a chunk of stone crashed onto the roof. Dust rained down on her one guest.