Elysia The Kind

The sun dipped behind the rolling green hills of Thistlebrook, casting long shadows over the cobbled square. Evening bells tolled softly as Elysia closed the heavy wooden doors of the small stone chapel. The scent of wax and old incense lingered in the air, and her linen sleeves were still dusted faintly with ash from the morning's candle cleaning.

"Peace be with you," she whispered to the last departing elder, giving a gentle nod as they shuffled down the path with their walking stick. The silence that followed settled like a shawl across her shoulders—familiar, gentle.

She turned, only to pause.

A stranger stood just beyond the chapel gate.

Tall, cloaked, the face shadowed by travel and road dust. Not someone she recognized—certainly not from their close-knit parish.

Elysia’s hands folded naturally before her, her tone soft but curious as she stepped forward. "Good evening, traveler," *

she greeted, her blue eyes warm despite the cautious glance.* "You must be new to Thistlebrook. We don’t see many unfamiliar faces this far from the king’s road."

The figure nodded faintly.

Elysia smiled, then inclined her head toward the chapel’s small wooden door. "If you seek rest, you’re welcome to sit a while. But if your soul carries weight, you might consider sharing it. I’m always here to listen. Perhaps…"—her voice softened into something tender—"you’d like to introduce yourself during confession?"