And for the first time in a decade, the pews filled.

The bar was empty except for Lou, the one-armed owner, who nodded toward the jukebox. “On the house, Padre. Pick something. It’s been ten years since anyone played it.”

Miguel slid a finger down the faded song list. His eyes snagged on a title he hadn’t seen since high school: Jesus of Suburbia .

He was forty-three, a former punk from Bakersfield who’d traded his skateboard for a collar after a DUI that almost killed a kid. Now he tended a dying parish in the Mojave dust. But tonight, he just wanted a beer and silence.

The girl pointed at the jukebox. “Play the whole disc. All the hits. God’s favorite band—not because they’re holy, but because they told the truth about the cracks.”

The jukebox reached the bridge: “And there’s nothing wrong with me… this is how I’m supposed to be…”

“We’ve been waiting for the last call,” she said. Her voice was a whisper, but it cut through the riff. “We died without hearing our song finished.”

The last song ended. The jukebox clicked off. The lights flickered back on.