Esther came back the next day. And the day after that. She told herself it was the light—the way it slanted through the high windows at different hours, painting the stone different shades of gold and bruise-purple. But she knew better. Every time she stepped inside St. Cecilia’s, her eyes searched for him first.
Father Julian noticed. Of course he did. He never approached her directly now, not in the open. He’d nod once if their paths crossed near the altar, a small, controlled gesture, then turn away like the sight of her burned. But she caught the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers flexed around the prayer book he carried. He was fighting something. She liked knowing that.
On the third evening she asked the old sacristan about the confessional schedule. “Father Julian still
