Someone sits alone in the back pew where Michael usually waits, his face soft around the cheeks and jaw but his dark eyes grave, the face of someone who has grown up too fast. There is singing in the background, subdued but high, yearning, Latin or some other long-dead language preserved for posterity.
“The one on the far right is free,” Michael says as he plops himself down.
He whirls to scan the row of confessionals before meeting Michael’s eyes and flushing. “Was it that obvious – ”
“I’m sorry,” Michael says at the same time. Up close, he looks around Michael’s age. “And I’m, um, Michael.”
“Ender,” and the singing suddenly raises goosebumps along his arms.
A Deeper Shade of Purple 