He's nervous, sitting in his empty church, if it could even be called that . . . yet. He likes to think the disrepair is inviting, not intimidating in the way grand cathedrals are, with their stained glass windows and their . . . budgets, ones without graffiti and puddles of water. Although, he likes to think many things--among them, that he isn't wasting his time.
He'd lit incense to mask the smell of mildew; had swept the dirt from the places that weren't actual dirt showing through the broken floorboards; he'd even put on a collar and shaved.
It had been a couple days since his announcement, or had it been a few? And no Kindred had come . . . yet. But he's a man of faith; he trusts that God will send those still fighting for their humanity, exactly when they're ready, exactly when Thomas can be of greatest use. And so he waits, sitting in his side of the confessional, the first thing he'd repaired. Ready when you are, God.
Confession Mechanics