Rust And Roses.

The doors of St Andrew’s always creaked, but that Sunday, they slammed open with a noise too sharp to ignore. A gust blew straight down the aisle, rattling the projector screen and sending hymn sheets skimming like dead leaves across the laminate floor.

"Just the breeze," someone said, and the moment passed.

It was a cold, sharp Sunday in April. The sky had that white-grey look of almost-spring, and the coffee machine near the welcome desk hissed like it was just as tired as everyone else.

The church hall was already busy—toddlers screeching across beanbags, volunteers in navy blue T-shirts arranging chairs and trying not to spill milk on the sound desk. The Victoria sponge on the fold-out table had begun to collapse, but Ruth and Margaret didn’t notice. They hovered by the tea station, trading half-smiles and updates about people who weren’t there to defend themselves.

Reza came in quietly. He always had. Same loose coat, same scuffed shoes. His smile was small but reliable, the kind you give people when you’re trying not to scare them. Mum waved at him. I saw her eyes flick down—shoes still peeling, same busted sole. She didn’t say anything.

He'd been part of the church for a while. Helped in the garden, joined a prayer night once or twice, showed up for the odd men’s breakfast when there was food. No one disliked him. They just didn’t quite know where to put him.

He stopped coming after a while.

"He’s probably got work," Mum said when I asked.

But I remembered the night he showed up at our door with a bundle of red-stamped letters, the kind that don’t bother with politeness anymore.

He asked if the church could help him—just to get through the month.

Mum said she’d mention it to the committee.

She didn’t.

Reza vanished after that. Quietly. No one chased him. No one had time.

Years passed. I left for uni. Came home less. The church updated its website, rebranded the youth group, bought a better coffee grinder. Everything kept moving. Everything got slicker.

Then one Christmas, I saw him again.

Reza.

He looked... different. New coat. Clean-shaven. Hair trimmed close. Shoes so black they looked like they’d never been walked in. He came in just before the music started. Sat in the back.

I smiled. He smiled back.

But his face didn’t move.

He didn’t sing. Didn’t take notes. Just sat there with his hands gripping the inside of his coat like he was holding something heavy.

I watched him through the talk—one of those upbeat messages about grace and new beginnings, with a story about a Tesco queue thrown in for relatability.

Reza didn’t move.

Then, during the closing song, our eyes met.

And I saw it.

The shape beneath his coat.

The tightness in his jaw.

The stillness.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

He stood.

And then—

The blast tore through the room.

The doors blew off their hinges. Windows shattered. The projector split in two. Light and heat swallowed sound. People flew backwards. Then nothing.

No music.

No movement.

Just smoke and screaming.

They called it terrorism.

They always do.

A few weeks later, the church reopened. Some of the walls were painted. A memorial service was held. A new vicar stepped in—young, smiling, with good trainers and a soft northern accent. He talked about healing. No one mentioned Reza.

The coffee machine still hisses in the lobby. The screens still flicker before the worship starts. People still show up in jeans and pretend their lives aren’t fraying at the edges.

But sometimes, when the wind pushes through those new glass doors—

I swear I can smell it.

Rust.

And roses.