ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART FOURTEEN
Morning light slid across the polished concrete outside the gated church office compound, stretching thin and pale like a witness that had arrived early.
The city was just waking—distant horns calling to one another, a bus hissing to a stop down the road, palm leaves whispering as a mild breeze threaded through them.
The air was cool, layered with the faint hum of traffic and the soft mechanical whirr of a security camera adjusting its angle above the gate.
The tall black gate stood closed, iron bars catching the light, flanked by uniformed security men shifting their weight, batons resting against their thighs.
Their boots scraped lightly against the concrete, a steady sound of order and vigilance.
Thaniel stood just outside the gate, his jacket folded over one arm, his other hand resting loosely at his side. He had been there since dawn.
Sleep had barely touched him. His eyes were sharp, fixed on the driveway beyond the gate, listening—waiting.
The breeze lifted the edge of his jacket, then let it fall again. He did not move.
A sleek black car turned into the street, its engine low and controlled, cutting cleanly through the morning noise.
Thaniel’s focus tightened. His steps slowed, then stopped. His eyes narrowed, locking onto the vehicle as it rolled closer, the headlights briefly flashing against the gate before switching off.
Tires whispered against the concrete as the car came to a halt.
A guard moved swiftly, keys clinking softly as the gate began to open.
The car moved into the car park.
A guard opened the car door, and Zionel stepped out, dressed in a tailored suit.
Morning light traced the sharp lines of his shoulders. He glanced briefly at his wristwatch, phone pressed to his ear for a moment.
He lowered it, nodded to someone unseen, and began walking toward the glass-fronted office building ahead.
His stride was steady, practiced—the kind shaped by routine and responsibility.
The guards straightened immediately, posture tightening as if drawn by an unseen command.
Thaniel surged forward, urgency breaking through restraint.
His sandals slapped sharply against the concrete as he reached the gate, the sound echoing once before dissolving into the open air. Dust lifted slightly around his feet.
His voice burst out before the guards could fully react, cutting through the morning calm.
Thaniel (urgent):
“Pastor—Zionel!”
The name carried across the compound, stirring movement. The guards reacted instantly—two stepping forward, arms outstretched, forming a barrier. The breeze seemed to pause.
Thaniel tried to shift past them, his chest rising as his tone climbed higher, desperation pressing against his ribs.
Thaniel (desperate):
“Please—just hear me! Pastor Zionel!”
The words struck the space and hung there. Zionel did not turn. The glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, swallowing him into the building.
A second later, the doors slid shut behind him, sealing the silence.
The guards’ shoulders eased, but their eyes stayed sharp. Somewhere above, the security camera adjusted again, its quiet whirr marking the moment.
Thaniel stood there, chest heaving. The guards watched him with narrowed eyes, measuring, weighing.
He looked at the building, its reflective glass now giving nothing back. He dropped his gaze to the ground, then lifted it again.
Slowly, he stepped away from the gate and leaned against the outer wall, the cool concrete pressing into his back.
The guards returned to their posts as if nothing had happened. The compound breathed on.
The sun climbed higher. The air warmed. Cars passed, their sounds blending into a steady rhythm. Hours passed. Shadows shifted along the walls and across the ground.
Office workers came and went, doors opening and closing, footsteps echoing briefly before fading.
Thaniel did not move. He sat briefly on the low curb, then stood again. His lips moved in prayer under his breath, words too soft to catch. He watched the gate. He waited.
When afternoon shadows stretched long across the church office compound and the sounds of office activity thinned to a low murmur, the glass doors opened again.
Zionel emerged, flanked by two guards. The light caught his suit differently now, warmer, heavier with the day’s passing. A guard opened the car door.
Zionel lowered himself into the seat, controlled and calm, and the guard closed the door gently, as if sealing something valuable inside.
The SUV rolled forward, engine humming low. The gate opened, metal groaning softly. Zionel’s car rolled out, turning toward the road.
As the vehicle began to move toward the exit, Thaniel stepped forward and planted himself directly in front of it.
The car braked hard.
Tires screeched briefly against the concrete. Guards shouted, anger flashing across their faces as they spilled out from the armored SUV and rushed toward him, boots thudding against the road.
One hand clamped down on Thaniel’s shoulder; another guard’s arm lifted, tension coiling tight in the air. The breeze shifted, stirring dust and leaves. The moment sharpened, stretched thin.
Then a voice cut through the noise, calm and weighted with authority.
Zionel (firm):
“Stop.”
The word fell like a command from a higher place. The guards froze mid-motion, hands suspended, breath caught. The street noise seemed to dull, as if the world itself leaned in to listen.
Zionel was standing behind them now, one hand resting on the open car door. His face was calm, but his eyes were alert, searching.
Thaniel turned, surprise flashing across his face, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough to breathe.
In two quick steps, he moved past the guards until he stood face-to-face with Zionel. The distance closed.
For a brief moment, the sounds of the street fell away, leaving only the hum of the engine and the quiet weight between them.
Thaniel’s mouth opened, words crowding his throat, ready to spill—but Zionel reached out first, gripping Thaniel’s hand firmly.
The grasp was brief but deliberate, a silent exchange sealed in flesh and pressure.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second—long enough for something unspoken to pass between them, something heavy with purpose.
Without a word, Zionel released him and turned back toward the car.
The guards exchanged confused glances, unease flickering across their faces, but they obeyed. The car door closed with a solid thud. The engine deepened its hum.
The SUV rolled forward, passed through the gate, and disappeared into the moving city.
Thaniel stood still.
Slowly, he looked down at his palm. The world seemed to breathe again—the wind returning, the distant horns calling.
A small card rested there. Beneath it, a folded slip of paper. His fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded it, careful, reverent. The writing was neat, precise.
Three days.
Flower garden behind the office.
Use the card.
Dress as a flower trimmer.
A quiet breath left him, something between a sigh and a laugh. The tightness in his chest eased.
He shook his head slowly, disbelief softening into a faint smile as the breeze brushed past him again.
His voice came quiet, wry, carrying a hint of amused recognition.
Thaniel (quietly):
“This pastor too is cunning.”
The city noise returned fully—cars passing, voices calling, life pressing forward without pause.
Thaniel folded the note, tucked it safely into his pocket, and turned away from the gate.
The trees along the road stirred as he walked, his steps lighter than when he had arrived, the air behind him carrying the stillness of something set in motion.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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