He hunches forward like his soul is on fire and he’s trying to get away from the heat of it

The morning sun of summer shines across the floor of the small sanctuary in red and yellow and purple. The minster nods to the pianist, smiling gently before surveying his flock. He looks at each of them, trying to catch their eyes, glimpse their souls. His shoulders are slightly hunched, an unconscious way he has had of dealing with his height since he was a teenager, an indication that he is always lost in some thought inside of himself. Many people meet his gaze briefly then turn to address their husband or look at their bulletin or reprimand their child. He doesn’t realize the intensity he carries in his faded blue eyes. Doesn’t realize how much the fire hurts to look at. He is barely beyond forty and already he looks like an old man, his soul devouring his body. He knows their minds are already on Sunday lunch, or the lawn that is waiting to be mowed, or the things they have to do during the long week. Some won’t meet his eyes at all. Except for Miss Emily.
-from Ashes