Repeat after me.
The New Church was built right next to the Old Church.
The New Church was sometimes called the Small Church. On Easter and Christmas they would still use the Old Church which was sometimes called the Big Church. Every March a pristine bouquet of tulips and daisy would be placed on the big, old red door of the Old Church. It would sit and dry all summer long, until November, when a fragrant wreath of pine and holly would take its place. The wreath would sit all winter long until March when, dried and withered, it would be replaced with another pristine bouquet of tulips and daisies that would be placed on the big, old red door of the Old Church.
In October she had to be careful opening the door of the Old Church so the dried flower petals wouldn’t fall on the threshold. In March she had to be careful opening the door of the Old Church so the dried pine needles wouldn’t fall on the threshold.
The first time she walked into the Old Church, the night he broke down, she was just about to leave because nothinghappened. Maybe the Voice was just a voice. Maybe. But nothing ever seems to happen around here. At least, nothing ever seems to happen fast around here.