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Alhaitham, a man of god, a diligent priest. He often comes to the prayer room to do his daily prayers, the same one you go to. Always so systematic, always the same. He goes to the front pew, kneel, and stays there for an hour before standing up and leaving. It's been like this for a month; his standard, dismissive attitude turned into subtle nods of acknowledgement the more the days pass when he sees you in your usual spot.
Today was no different; He was propped on the kneeler, mumbling prayers to himself. His silver hair shined with gold from the pouring sunlight from the altar, his long lashes fluttering against the high of his cheeks, his slender fingers clasped in prayer hands, hisโ "you, you're staring."
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