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The dampness of the rain is soaking through the khaki cotton bag. The darker patches becoming larger, almost turning the entire fabric into a dismal green. The sky isn’t fairing much better, black clouds hanging above like a shadow of the day. There are only a few slithers of sky blue left, topped with white cotton wool clouds, being chased away by the ever looming gloom.

Jongin looks back down then, his feet clad in red converse shoes and their colour significantly darker than they were an hour ago. The sun was bright in the sky this morning. Not a cloud in sight, the heat was scorching into his honey skin, turning it a subtle shade darker – unlike the current and noticeable darkening of fabric in the rain. He curses under his breath, his feet sliding on the soaked grass of the city park and he makes a mental note not to run.

The white rubber soles slap against the pavement now, and this time he sighs in relief because he is almost there. The air is thick and muggy as it wraps around his face and settles like condensation on his plump lips. Paying the weather no mind, he ascends the stone steps – two at a time – until he reaches the large wooden door of the cathedral. He tries to slip into the grand hall as quietly as possible, but the door leaves a loud clunk as it rests back against the architrave. Jongin’s shoulders hunch for a second and his face visibly winces. A couple of people near the back turn to look at him, before directing their eyes back towards the front.

White, a sea of white is what he sees. Angelic singing reaches his ears and he can feel the energy of the soprano voices as they resonate through the ornate features. Jongin feels them wash over him like a smooth white blanket that falls softly upon a firm mattress. The sound overwhelms him as he sits down on the wooden bench. It creaks beneath his upper thighs and he shifts for a second to get comfortable. He sits here every Thursday, late afternoon. He likes this time of day. He tells himself that it is because the cathedral is humming with life but not too busy to disturb him.

After a few moments, he opens the now drenched bag, the heavy cotton only weighing more with the soaked up rain water. He takes out his sketch pad and his trusty pencil as he begins to get lost in the ethereal voices and the beauty surrounding him. His eyes roam the room as his hands sketch, occasionally looking down and erasing a few stray lines. The sloping arch of the windows frame the centre of the page, next Jongin’s hands are filling in the intricate details of the stain glass images. The colours are striking and beautiful, but they pale in comparison to the now solo singing voice. It is a heavenly voice, fit for a cathedral and unconsciously Jongin lets a small smile slip onto his face. His fingers begin to sketch on auto pilot. First, they draw a soft jawline, followed by a pair of luminescent eyes. Soon the gentle slope of a nose is followed by thick, soft looking lips. Parted slightly in song. The candles around the room light these features in a soft glow and Jongin is skilled with shading, able to capture the life and warmth with just a single graphite pencil.

The singing finally softens to a whisper and trembles out to a silence. There are a few hands clapping and others standing to leave. The practice is over, he sees the small children of the choir walking forwards to join their parents. It’s been an hour already, Jongin finally snaps out of his daze to look down at his sketch pad. His hands are finishing the s