The Last Thunderborn

St. John's Church in Failsworth, Manchester, stands as a monument to both faith and craftsmanship, its commanding presence a silent storyteller of time and devotion. Rising amidst the urban surroundings, the church is an awe-inspiring beacon of tradition and community. Its weathered stone frontage, marked by the passage of years, speaks of resilience and endurance, a fortress of peace in a restless world.

The steeple, a masterpiece in its own right, reaches into the sky like an eternal prayer, crowned by a broach spire that seems to bridge the earthly and the divine. Adorned with clock faces and corner gargoyles, its details invite both curiosity and admiration, each element whispering of the hands that shaped it and the hearts that believed in its purpose. At the base, the west end's four-stage structure is grounded with angle buttresses, creating a foundation as sturdy as the faith it represents.

The exterior's artistry is matched by the interior's ethereal beauty. Light pours through the intricate stained-glass windows, transforming the sanctuary into a celestial canvas. Each fragment of colored glass tells a story, casting hues of ruby, emerald, and sapphire across the sacred space. The east window, with its three lancets, commands attention… a visual hymn to divine glory. Along the side, paired lancet windows framed by continuous hood templates create a rhythmic elegance, while the clerestory's unique spherical triangular windows add a touch of architectural ingenuity.

Inside, the design unfolds like a sacred melody. The nave, with its clerestory allowing light to dance above, feels expansive yet intimate. The north and south aisles stretch gracefully, guiding visitors toward the chancel. Flanked by the organ chamber and vestry, the chancel is a space of quiet reverence, inviting moments of reflection and spiritual connection.

Outside, in the crisp autumn air, Richard Smith stood with his heart pounding in his chest. He adjusted his cufflinks for what felt like the hundredth time, glancing down at his polished black shoes. On the first Sunday of every month, the congregation gathered for an All-Age Parish Communion, a tradition that fostered a sense of inclusivity and togetherness. But today was not one of his usual visits to this church.

Every detail of the day had been planned meticulously, yet as he watched the flurry of friends and family gathering, a nervous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

His mother, Patricia, approached him with a gentle warmth in her eyes. She had raised him mostly on her own after his father, John, passed away when Richard was just a boy. She now looked him over with a mixture of pride and nostalgia.

"You look just like your father did on our wedding day," she said, her voice soft and filled with a bittersweet warmth.

Richard looked down, a lump forming in his throat. "I wish he were here, Mom. I wish he could see this."

Patricia reached out, touching his arm reassuringly. "He would be so proud of you, Richard. Just as proud as I am." She paused, and a distant sadness filled her eyes before she brightened again, nudging him slightly. "And Sarah is going to be stunned. You'll probably steal the breath right out of her the moment she sees you."

Richard chuckled softly, glancing over his mother's shoulder at the guests still arriving. He was struck by a swell of gratitude for the family and friends who had come to witness this day. Some had traveled long distances just to be there, to celebrate the love that he and Sarah had shared since high school. It felt like a dream, all of them gathered at St. John's, the church he and Sarah had attended together during their teenage years.

"She'll probably laugh at me for dressing up," Richard murmured with a half-smile. "She's always saying I'm too serious, too focused."

"That's why you're such a good match," his grandmother, Margaret, chimed in from her wheelchair beside them. She smiled up at him with a twinkle in her eye, the same mischievous spark she'd had all his life. "You keep her steady, and she brings a little bit of sunshine to your life. She's been good for you, Richard."

Richard nodded, his smile widening at the thought of Sarah. They had met as high school juniors, an accidental pairing during a group project. Sarah's laugh was contagious, and she had a warmth that instantly drew people to her. They had built a friendship that blossomed into a deep love, enduring through college, job changes, and countless late-night talks about the future.

"She's been more than good for me, Gran," he replied softly. "She's been my anchor. My best friend. And after today, she'll be my wife."

He was about to add something else when he felt a soft vibration in his pocket. Frowning, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen—a number he didn't recognize. It was strange for anyone to call him on this day of all days, but he thought it might be one of Sarah's family members with a question.

"I'll be just a minute," he murmured to his mother, stepping a few paces away.

"Hello?" he answered, his voice wary yet polite.

There was a pause, and then a voice replied, "Is this Mr. Richard Smith?"

"Yes, speaking."

"This is Officer Carter from the Royal Oldham Hospital," the voice on the other end continued, her tone tense but steady. "I'm calling regarding Sarah Jones. I… I'm afraid she's been in an accident."

Richard's heart lurched, his fingers tightening around his phone as his mind raced to catch up with the words. "An accident? What—how is she? Is she all right?"

There was a hesitation, and Richard could almost feel the gravity in the silence before Officer Carter continued, her voice softer now. "She's in critical condition, Mr. Smith. She was brought in not too long ago and is currently in surgery."

Richard staggered, gripping a nearby pillar for support as a wave of shock and dread washed over him. His world began to narrow, the surrounding sounds of laughter and conversation fading into a distant hum.

"Richard?" His mother's voice cut through the fog, alarmed and filled with concern. Patricia had been watching him from a few feet away and hurried over, a look of worry on her face as she saw the ashen expression on his.

He turned to her, his face drained of color, eyes wide with panic. "Mom… Sarah… there's been an accident. She's at the hospital… she's in surgery…"

Patricia's hand flew to her mouth, and her face went pale. "Oh my God," she whispered, reaching out to steady herself. She looked at him with determination through her shock, grabbing his arm. "Come on. We need to go. Now."

Together, they rushed back toward the car, Richard's heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear anything else. His grandmother, Margaret, watched them go, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, whispering a prayer as Patricia and Richard left.

The car ride to Royal Oldham Hospital was silent, each passing second dragging on in an agonizing crawl. Patricia's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white as she drove, her eyes focused, the muscles in her jaw clenched.

Richard sat in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window, his mind a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. Memories flooded his mind: Sarah's laugh, her warm smile, the way her eyes sparkled when she was excited. Just that morning, they had exchanged texts filled with excitement and anticipation for the day that was supposed to be theirs.

"Please, let her be okay," he whispered under his breath, clutching the small crucifix he'd kept from his father. He hadn't prayed in years, but now he found himself silently begging, willing Sarah to hold on.

After what felt like an eternity, they pulled into the hospital parking lot, and Richard was out of the car before it had even come to a full stop. He raced through the hospital doors, his heart hammering, Patricia close behind him. The sterile, clinical smell of the hospital hit him as they entered, and the harsh fluorescent lights felt jarring, almost surreal.

"Sarah Jones," he gasped as he reached the front desk, his voice barely audible. "Where… where is she?"

A nurse looked up, her expression softening as she took in his frantic appearance. "She's in surgery right now, sir. Please, if you'll take a seat, the doctor will update you as soon as possible."

Patricia gently guided him to a row of plastic chairs, and they sank into them together, their hands intertwined. Richard sat in silence, numb, every second feeling like a lifetime.

Across from them, a family waited as well, an elderly man clutching his wife's hand while a young woman wiped away tears. Richard watched them with hollow eyes, feeling a kinship in their silent suffering, but unable to focus on anything but the tight knot of fear and dread growing in his chest.

After what felt like hours, a doctor finally approached, his face grave. Richard's stomach twisted as he stood, bracing himself.

"Mr. Smith?" the doctor asked, looking at him with compassion.

"Yes," Richard managed; his voice choked with emotion. "How… is she…?"

The doctor took a slow breath, his eyes heavy. "I'm so sorry. We did everything we could, but Sarah… she didn't survive the surgery. Her injuries were too severe."

The words felt unreal, hanging in the air like a cruel joke. Richard staggered backward, his body going cold as the weight of the words hit him. Patricia let out a soft cry, covering her mouth as tears streamed down her face.

"No…" Richard whispered, his voice breaking as he shook his head. "No, she… we were supposed to get married today. She can't be gone."

The doctor placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Smith. If there's anything we can do…"

Richard barely heard him. The world around him faded to a hollow, aching silence as he sank into his chair, his body wracked with grief too deep to bear.