"We must not scatter like frightened sheep," he says, raising his hands. "This trial has come so that we may prove ourselves worthy."
Trial. The word hangs in the air.
Doamna Marica’s voice rises from the back, trembling at first, then gaining strength.
"Perhaps this is God’s mercy," she says. "Perhaps He has shown us what happens when we grow complacent. We have grown too comfortable. Too distracted. This has brought us together again."
A few heads turn toward her.
She continues, emboldened.
"Look at us. All here. All praying as one. When was the last time the church was this full outside of feast days? Perhaps the Lord is reminding us to stand united in faith."
A murmur of agreement ripples outward.
"Maybe He shakes us awake," she continues. "Maybe He removes what distracts us so we may cling only to Him. Even suffering can be a blessing, if it draws us closer."
Silence follows.
Then someone nods.
"Yes," a man says hoarsely. "Yes. That must be it."
"God would not abandon us," another adds quickly.
"He corrects those He loves."
The words catch, spread, settle.
A blessing.
Mama nods beside me, relief softening her face as though a knot has loosened in her chest.
"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, of course."
Elena nods too. I see it from the corner of my eye—the solemn dip of her head, the acceptance in her posture. Her hand finds mine and squeezes gently, as if to reassure me.
I stare ahead at the wooden cross above the altar.
A blessing.
The sheep lying open in the grass.
Doamna Irina’s mouth filled with earth.
My stomach tightens so violently I have to swallow to keep from speaking.
How can blood be mercy?
How can torn throats be love?
I lift my eyes, searching faces around me. They glow in reverence and exhaustion. Hands clasp tighter. Backs straighten with renewed purpose. Fear reshapes itself into righteousness, as if the horror has given them purpose.
"Not everyone is here."
The voice cuts through the noise before I can untangle the knot forming in my chest. Petru the shepherd stands near the doors, hat crushed between his hands. His boots leave faint smears of pasture mud on the stone. Every eye fixes on him. For a moment no one speaks, as if the question itself has weight.
"Not everyone?" Doamna Marica repeats faintly.
