The door closes again.
A woman approaches carrying a hen in a basket. The bird shifts and rustles. The assistant smiles and motions her forward without pause.
The old man remains where he is, turning his cap between his fingers. He bows, speaks quickly. The assistant listens, then glances down at the man’s empty fingers. He leans closer to Popa Vasile, standing at the threshold, and whispers something I cannot hear. The priest places a hand on the old man’s shoulder. His lips move in brief blessing. The old man nods and steps aside.
When I reach the front at last, the assistant lifts his arm slightly to block my path.
"Father is very occupied today," he smiles. "So many burdens after such a loss."
"I only require a moment," I answer. My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
The assistant nods toward the side chapel. A man stands there with a young ram on a rope. The animal shifts, hooves scraping stone. The man speaks urgently, one hand gripping the wool at its neck.
The assistant inclines his head, still smiling. "There are many needs today."
The man with the ram is waved forward.
I look at my hands.
There is nothing in them. No cloth. No basket. No rope.
Popa Vasile laughs quietly at something the farmer says. His hand rests briefly on the folded wool laid near his feet. His thumb presses into it once, testing its thickness.
I wait.
More people slip past me. A pouch changes hands. A loaf of bread wrapped in linen is set down and taken up again.
The candles burn lower.
When at last his gaze lifts and finds me, it pauses only a heartbeat. It drops to my empty hands. Then it moves beyond me to the woman standing behind with a small sack drawn tight at the neck.
"Come," he says, gesturing her forward.
I step back, heart beating hard beneath my ribs. I press my palms together to still them.
"Please," I say again.
The assistant sighs, almost kind. "Come back tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
The word falls heavy.
From within the chamber comes the low murmur of Popa Vasile’s voice, steady and warm. A short laugh follows. The sound does not belong to grief.
"I cannot wait until tomorrow," I say quietly.
The assistant offers me a thin smile.
"God’s time is not always ours."
I step back. He will not wait for tomorrow. Tonight, the door will open again.
The air grows thicker near the altar. Wax drips in slow threads down the sides of the candles. Smoke hangs beneath the beams, pressing low against the carved wood.
I stop beneath the cross.
Christ hangs there, ribs standing in stark relief beneath hollowed flesh, head bowed as if the weight still pulls at him. The firelight catches along the curve of his side. The wound is painted dark.
