Standing in a church courtyard while a priest comes apart in front of me because his little brother looked at me like I was death wearing a familiar face.
My stomach twists.
I press my hand over it like I can hold myself together long enough to say something that might matter.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The word falls between us like a bead from a broken rosary.
He freezes.
Not a flinch.
Not a turn.
Just… stillness.
For a dangerous second, something in me reaches for hope.
That he’ll look at me.That he’ll come to me.That he’ll take my face in his hands the way he does when he forgets the vows and remembers the man.
That we’ll pretend none of this touched us.
That guilt doesn’t stain.
That children forget.
That I’m not what my life insists I am.
Hope has always been my most fragile sin.
Santino exhales slowly, like he’s bargaining just to stay upright.
“For you,” he says quietly, still facing the stone instead of me, “that’s a word.”
Cold spreads through my chest.
“For me,” he continues, “it’s a graveyard.”
My nails dig into my palms.
Then he finally turns.
And there it is again.
Not hatred.
Worse.
Recognition.
“You don’t just scare my brother,” he says. “You are my brother’s fear.”
The words hit like a body blow.
I flinch.
I can’t hide it.
