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“Please.”

I crossed the distance between us as her knees gave out.

She collapsed into my arms.

She was lighter than I expected. Burning with fever and shock. Her fingers caught in the front of my cassock, clutching the black fabric as though it were the only solid thing she had to hold onto.

I looked down at her face. At the blood and bruises on her skin. A life hunted to my altar.

The engine grew louder. Headlights swept across the stained-glass windows, cutting the saints into pieces of color and shadow.

My hand tightened around the woman’s waist.

For one breath, I tried to think like Father Demitri Marco.

Call the police.

Ring the convent.

Hide her and pray.

Then the car stopped outside.

Doors slammed.

Men’s voices cut through the rain.

My gaze lifted to the entrance.

Peace was a fragile thing, and mine had just shattered without a sound.

I gathered the woman against my chest and carried her into the dark.

3

ADRIANA - FLASHBACK

Father tested the lock, pressed his palm against the wood, then leaned towards the narrow pane of glass beside it and stared into the dark street.

“Papa.”

He didn’t answer.

The house had been quiet for hours. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The neighbours’ lights had gone out one by one until ours was the only home still awake.

My father stood beneath the yellow hallway light in his shirtsleeves, thin shoulders drawn tight, grey beginning to show through his dark hair.

He looked older than he had that morning. Lately, he always looked older by night.

“Is there someone outside?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then come away from the door.”

He remained there.

I set my pen beside the figures I had been working through and watched him look between the lock and the window again.