The church was ours. Linc and I had already marked one of the walls as our own, a tag on the south wall that clever eyes struggled to find. It belonged solely to us, despite what the city may think. The door stood open, inviting me in as it always did.

I danced my way across the floor, waltzing around the smashed tables and chairs. Every broken piece, a memory.

There was the chair with the legs Linc had partially sawed through so that whoever sat in it would fall backwards. And over there, there was the table we'd built a fort out of before we smashed it. Behind the pulpit was the window where an image of an angel had been before we threw rocks at it. Here was where I had tripped the bishop and he spilled the Eucharist wine and wafers. On the wall, the graffiti gremlin watched my steps, laughing at my clumsy skips as I capered around the shattered stained glass shards.

The fluttering of pages brought an end to my dance, a dissonant chord in the song.

My eyes fell on the book of hymns lying open on the floor. I pulled my jacket closer around me, wishing I'd grabbed something thicker than my plaid over-shirt when I'd left that morning. It was colder in here than it normally was. Of course, Linc was usually in here by now with a cigarette in his mouth and one in hand, an offering for me.

I walked over to the book and, close enough, nudged it with my foot. It slid across the floor slowly, raking a trail through the dust. That book was the cause of all this trouble. That book was why I was alone now.

I kicked the book, sending it flying across the empty church; it hit the far wall with an unsatisfying and echoing thud. I sunk into one of the half-burned pews, bowing my head though I wasn’t praying. I would never pray to the God who took Linc away from me.

We’d been in the church that night as we often were. He’d offered me a cigarette; I lit it. Life, what passed for it in this dreary town, went on. Everything was going so well. Then Linc started throwing rocks at one of the standing candle holders by the stained glass window of the angel.

“Hey, Grim, check this out. Betcha I can hit the angel’s nose.”

“Not if I get it first.”

We were both terrible shots, but I was just slightly better. If I had been just as bad or worse, then maybe Linc and I would still be together. My rock—not even a decent-sized one, just a mere pebble—hit the candle holder and bounced into the window. It hit the angel square on the nose, right where Linc had wanted to hit it. For one brief moment, I was on top of the world.

Then the candle holder tipped over.

It was a domino effect. One candle holder hit another and another and they all fell to the floor. The wall and the rug near them were the first to begin burning, but it was spreading fast. I’m not an idiot. I saw the flames and I booked it right out of there, didn’t even look back until I was outside. Outside in the new-moon night, I stopped and looked for Linc. Linc was nowhere to be seen. He must still have been inside. But why? Why wouldn’t he have gotten out of there?

The firefighters came later. Smoke inhalation. He looked like a statue, a sleeping doll, at the funeral. His grave is nice, nearby so I can visit it whenever I want. A purple hyacinth sits on the headstone, a new one every day.

I stood up and buttoned my jacket; it was colder in here than it should’ve been, windier for this time of year, too. I danced my way back to the door to leave our church. Tomorrow, I was leaving for college up north and wouldn’t be back until Christmas. I said good-bye to Linc earlier and needed to bid farewell to our church.