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Weeks passed. Sometimes she slept in churches, sometimes on a bench under the stars. Sometimes she ran into trouble and thought about the gun the priest had taught her to hold. Each time she considered using it, she asked herself if the pull of the muzzle would bring Mateo back or only teach another child how to fold a body into silence.
He invited her inside. Candles burned on both altars now, their wax mingling on the shared table as if even devotion and guilt were trying to find a way to blend. The priest moved like someone who had learned how to carry weight without letting it slouch—careful, steady. When the town clock chimed, the sound felt like an oath.