Michael Cunningham sat in the back row of St. Joseph’s, the same church he’d been coming to since he was a boy. The air smelled of incense and candle wax, just like it always had, but the scent no longer comforted him. It clung to him like something stale.

The priest was speaking. Father O’Hara was assigned to the parish just last year, but Michael couldn’t follow the words. He’d heard them all before. Forgiveness. Salvation. Eternal life. They rang hollow now, like a bell with a crack in it.

He used to believe. Not just a go-through-the-motions belief, but deep, marrow-level faith. He’d been an altar boy here, carrying the processional cross with pride. He’d prayed the rosary with his mother every night before bed. He’d confessed sins that, looking back, were hardly worth mentioning.

But then life began to hand him questions that the Church wouldn’t, or couldn’t, answer.

When his brother died in a car accident three years ago, Michael had gone to the rectory desperate for comfort, for meaning. Father McDonald had told him it was “God’s plan,” as if that explained anything. When the scandal broke and priests were moved quietly from parish to parish after “allegations”, Michael had defended the Church to his friends, insisting it was the work of a few bad men. But each headline chipped away at something inside him.

And when his mother’s health began to fail, he’d prayed every night for a miracle. Not for her to live forever, just for more time. But time had run out anyway.

Michael still came to Mass out of habit, but he found himself staring not at the altar, but at the people around him. Some bowed their heads with genuine reverence. Others mouthed the prayers without thought. He wondered if any of them ever felt the desolation he carried now.

The homily ended, and the congregation rose for the Creed. Michael stayed seated. No one seemed to notice.

He looked up at the stained glass above the altar, Christ with arms open wide, and felt nothing. No comfort, no awe. Just the faint draft from the old windows and the creak of the wooden pew beneath him.

When the final hymn began, Michael slipped out the side door. The cool air outside hit his face, and for the first time in months, he didn’t feel guilty for leaving early.

He didn’t know if he’d be back next Sunday.

For now, the Church felt like an empty shell, and he couldn’t pretend to fill it with belief anymore.

And, you know I mustn’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.