Chapter 5 Departure

Mrs. Henderson's fist was still raised when I yanked the door open. Morning light stabbed my eyes like hot needles, and the first thought that hit me was how badly I wanted to slam the door in her face. My mouth tasted like death and bad decisions.

"Father Daniel resigned!" she spat, her floral dress quivering with righteous fury. "Because of your little performance last night!"

The words slammed into me harder than the light.

I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself. "What?"

"Oh, don't play innocent." Her beady eyes dragged over my rumpled clothes, my hair that still smelled faintly of whiskey, my mascara smudged like war paint. "The whole town heard you staggering through the sanctuary drunk. And now..." She thrust a crumpled church bulletin at my chest. "he's leaving."

The paper shook in my hands.

Effective immediately, Father Daniel Moretti has requested reassignment...

The words blurred into nothing. My stomach lurched as if the floor had dropped away beneath me.

Mrs. Henderson was still shrieking, throwing words like "harlot" and "sacrilege" at me, her voice a crow's caw in the morning quiet. I couldn't take it. I slammed the door shut in her face, the sound vibrating through the wood, then stood there with my forehead pressed against it, breath shallow.

Leaving. He's really leaving.

I turned and stumbled toward his room. Spotless. Too spotless. Bed made, sheets tucked with precision. The faint smell of soap lingered in the air, but not him, not his cologne, not the trace of coffee he always left on his desk. The space was stripped clean, as though Daniel had been a figment of my imagination. He must have come in late at night when I was knocked out and grabbed all his stuff.

No books. No clothes. No rosary left behind on the nightstand. Just one thing.

A photograph.

It sat in the center of the dresser, positioned deliberately, waiting for me.

My throat closed as I snatched it up.

It was him, Daniel, younger, smiling in a way I'd never seen. The sea behind him, the sky pale blue. Mont-Saint-Michel, I realized, is the island monastery in France. He looked almost... alive in the picture. Not the stone-faced priest I knew. Not the man who only ever showed cracks in moments of weakness.

My hands trembled as I turned it over.

Mont-Saint-Michel, 2014. Before the silence.

Before the silence. What did that even mean? Why did he leave this here?

I stared at the words until they blurred, trying to piece together what he meant. He must've been twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven then. Younger than me now. What silence? What broke him?

And why the hell did he leave this for me?

A goodbye? A warning? A curse?

The thought I'd been avoiding sliced clean through me.

He left because of you.

The photo slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the dresser. I pressed my fists into my eyes until stars shone behind them.

I shouldn't have left the house, but I did. My legs carried me straight to the only place I could breathe. The bar.

I didn't notice how long I sat at the counter until Maggie slammed her fist down, grabbing my attention.

"Earth to Elena..." I turned to her with a solemn expression. She didn't even flinch when she saw me looking at her like that. Mags just went behind the bar, grabbed a glass of water, and slid it across the counter towards me.

"Drink first. Then talk."

I dropped onto a stool like my bones couldn't hold me up. My fingers shook around the glass. "He's gone."

"I heard." Her eyes flicked toward the corner booth, where three old fishermen were whispering too loudly, their voices buzzing with scandal. Maggie leaned closer. "What the hell happened, Elena?"

I pulled the photo from my pocket like it was evidence. My voice cracked. "I fucked up."

Her brows rose, but her face stayed calm. "How bad?"

"I... I told him things. About before." My throat burned. "And last night...I..."

"You didn't." She leaned back. "You didn't seduce him, did you?"

"No!" The word came out too fast, too defensive. My pulse spiked. "I just... I don't know. I crossed lines. I pushed him. And now he's gone."

Maggie studied me, her expression unreadable. Then she shook her head slowly. "Bullshit."

I blinked. "What?"

"That man didn't run because of your tragic backstory, Elena. He didn't resign because you bared your soul. He left because it got to him. Because you matter."

Her words hit like a shard of glass, sharp and unwelcome.

I shoved the photo back into my pocket. "You're wrong."

"Am I?"

Her gaze didn't waver, and I hated that flicker of hope sparking in my chest. I drowned it with the rest of my water and pushed away from the counter.

I shouldn't have gone to the church, but I did.

The sanctuary was quiet, dust motes drifting through colored light. The air still smelled faintly of incense, though it had long burned out. Old Father O'Leary looked up from the altar when I entered, his lined face folding into a confusion and worry.

"You," he muttered, like he was holding back from saying something I wasn't supposed to hear.

I ignored him. My feet carried me straight to the confession booth.

It looked smaller in daylight. Just wood and nails and a curtain that hadn't been washed in years. The magic of last night, the dangerous electricity was gone. What remained was reality. A box. A trap.

I slid inside the penitent's side, heart pounding. My knees pressed against the same grooves as before. My eyes traced the lattice screen, chipped in one corner. Had he done that? Me?

Then I saw it.

Carved into the wood, fresh enough that the edges were still raw.

E.

My breath stuttered.

He had done this. Daniel. In the aftermath of last night, when I stumbled away and left him to the silence. He'd carved my initial into the booth like a scar.

I pressed my fingers to it, the wood rough under my skin, and my throat ached. I'm really confused right now. What does this all mean? First té picture and now the letter?

"Regretting your actions, child?"

The voice startled me.

Father O'Leary stood at the doorway, his white hair glowing in the fractured light of the stained glass.

I rose slowly, like the air itself had thickened. "Where is he?"

"Gone."

"Where?"

His eyes softened in a way I hadn't seen before. "Some things aren't your concern."

I took a step closer. "Tell me."

"He left specific instructions." The old priest folded his arms, his gaze heavy with something like pity. "No contact. No forwarding address. Especially not for you. I can't help you unfortunately because as my duty as a priest, I have to respect people's decisions whether right or wrong."

The words hit harder than Mrs. Henderson's shrieking, harder than the church piano.

Especially not for you.

My pulse went cold. My hands curled into fists at my sides.

Wow. He really does hate me.

And yet why carve my initial into the confessional if he hated me? Why leave the photograph? Why not vanish cleanly, without a trace?

None of it made sense.

Father O'Leary's eyes lingered on me like he wanted to say more, but instead, he turned back toward the altar. "Leave him be, Elena. Just let him go. You see, some souls can't be saved by wanting but instead falling back."

I stood frozen in the dim booth, my fingers still pressed to the carved E, my throat tight with words I couldn't say.

Because deep down, I didn't believe him.

Daniel hadn't left because he hated me. He'd left because something inside him broke last night and maybe just maybe I was the only one who could understand why.

I backed away slowly, my eyes burning, my chest a knot of anger and grief.

Where was he? Where had he gone? Was it my fault? My feet felt heavy as I carried myself out of the church, head down. Guess it was for the best then.