It was a glimpse. A shadow across a busy midday street disappearing through a doorway into darkness. But twenty yards further up, in front of the No Frills he’d been heading to, Gladwyn is sure. The cards of memory are shuffled and dealt like flashes of light, and he’s certain.

So now he’s here, inside this church he’s passed frequently and never wondered about. It’s Catholic, he knew that. Sometimes he still remembers the young white chaplain, Canadian, who came to the prison at least once a week, more often if a hanging was close. But Gladwyn has never been to one of their services. For Granny, Catholics were the Antichrist. He wonders what she’d say about Muslims like his boss, Amal.

It’s a sizeable church and there are maybe a hundred people planted haphazardly like shrubs in the tidy rows of benches. A few are talking, their voices echoing in a soft wash from the vaulted ceiling. There’s piano music, the notes like raindrops on the dark air.

Gladwyn stands at the back of the church just inside the door, jostled by people coming in but refusing to move his feet. Searching. Finally.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 6. Purchase the book to read the full piece.