The Crypt Sweeper

He was a silent, skinny man as thin and twisted as the skeletons he walked among, as dusty as the dirt they lay in. No one seemed to know his name; no one cared. He barely spoke to anyone, hardly ever left the crypts at all. So much time underground had bleached his wrinkled skin snow-white and paper thin, had darkened his long, tangled hair to a dull grayish brown.

Every dawn he would come to the church and offer a rusty smile to the little maid whose job it was to provide fresh flowers to each window vase. She would fish a long, jagged key from her apron pocket and the prettiest flower from her bouquet and hand them to him, her young tender lips smiling back.

"Thank you, Maya," he would say, in a voice that ripped like metal screeching on metal. Maya never minded, she just nodded shyly and put more lilies in a porcelain vase. The morning sun would shine like a miracle through the stained glass Jesus and he would smile down on the two of them as the crypt sweeper retreated into the darkness and the flower girl soaked up the sunshine.

But one day the rain came down on the church roof and Maya took sick. She stayed home that morning, and the teardrops ran down stained glass cheeks as flowers wilted in their stagnant water. Maya was young and strong, and a day in bed soon returned her strength. The next morning, she ran to the church, her basket of lilies clutched tight in one hand and her lavender frock flapping behind her.

She made her circuit to each white porcelain vase, growing warm inside with happiness as she reached the window that held Jesus in his red robe, arms held out to embrace the world. Leftover raindrops clung to his face.

Maya placed the lilies in their vase extra slowly, her eyes latched onto her hands as they trekked across the empty air. She brushed the fallen petals off the windowsill as if moving through molasses.

The vase was full, the windowsill clean, and yet the huge doors had not creaked open. No shuffling steps brushed across the floor, kissing the wood with ages-old dust.

Slipping into a pew, Maya set down her basket of lilies and left tears on their petals like dewdrops. The dawning sun shone through the colored glass, seeping through her skin, and she seemed to hear the crypt sweeper's rough voice as warmth surrounded her and the night chill was banished to the shadows.

Maya took the key out of her apron pocket and wove a pristine lily through the intricate loops in its top. Walking slowly to the small door that hid the resting place of generations of priests, she slid the key and the flower under the door. Closing her eyes, thank you, Maya, floated past her ears.

This time, instead of looking down, saturated with shyness, she pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the door.

"You're welcome," she whispered back.