The church was empty on Sunday night, the scent of incense and old wood lingering in the air. A young man sat in the back row, not praying, just existing. He felt like the week had been a storm and he was the driftwood washed up on the shore. Sunday was the tide going out. It left him stranded, but it also left the beach clean. He realized that he didn't have to carry the storm into the next week. He could leave it there, in the quiet shadows of the rafters. When he walked out the door, the cool night air felt like a benediction, a fresh start written in the stars.