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She steps through the doors, and she’s gone.

I remember the last time I stepped into a church. I still remember the pain, the tears. I remember the judgment in her eyes. I remember the way I begged her, silently, to help me, but she didn’t. I remember how she turned away—ran away. The way she shrank away from me like I was some disgusting thing. The way she left me there to suffer.

More than anything, I remember how much it hurt. I remember the blood and the way I screamed.

So much blood, and I couldn’t get it to stop. I remember panicking and watching crimson smear across my flesh as I tried to wipe it away.

I remember it all.

I wonder if Mercy remembers?

I’ll make sure she does.

I step out from behind the tree and into the late October chill. I move across the street, just like she did, but instead of turning into the church parking lot like she did, I move past it, past the Parsons Bakery, and then alongside it, in the alley that leads behind the storefronts—and behind the church.

I find the back entrance cracked open, the dim light seeping through the open doorway, and falling on the old, broken cobblestone path that runs behind the building. I step up to the door and push it open. The musty scent of old books and incense fills my nostrils, triggering memories of a time when this place offered comfort—before it was the place where my nightmares had come to life.

I step inside, the wooden floor creaking under my weight as I navigate the dimly lit hallway, passing by flickering candles casting dancing shadows on the walls. The sound of distant murmurs and organ music echoes through the corridors,guiding me forward. As I reach the end of the hallway, the grand entrance looms in front of me, and I stop, sliding behind the door, peering through the crack.

It doesn’t take me long to find her.

She’s sitting in one of the nearest pews, her parents seated on either side of her like silent guardians. Her smile is a fragile thing, a glass ornament hanging on a thin thread, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

Her eyes, though—they tell a different story.

They tell the story of our child, nestled in her womb, growing steadily. The gift I gave her that she has yet to thank me for.

She will, one day.

The creak of the huge, ornate doors draws her attention. She turns, just as the door swings open, and Mrs. Jenkins steps into the room, the town pharmacist, her heels clicking against the polished hardwood like a ticking clock. Her sister and husband follow, flanking her much like Mercy’s parents do. Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes, sharp and discerning, scan the crowd, lingering on Mercy for a moment.

A little too long.

Mercy sees it too.

Her smile drops. Her eyes roll to the ground, her lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks. Her shoulders hunch forward, a futile attempt to make herself smaller, invisible. Shame radiates from her like heat from a furnace, and fear—oh, the fear is a living thing, writhing beneath her skin.

I can almost taste it.

Fuck, I wish I could taste it.

“Mercy, dear,” Mrs. Jenkins calls out. “How lovely to see you. How have you been?”

Mercy tries to force a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

Will her parents notice?

“Good morning, Mrs. Jenkins. It’s good to see you too.”

Her voice is tiny, terrified. It’s the squeak of a newborn mouse.

My gorgeous little church mouse.

So fragile.

Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes narrow, her gaze sweeping over Mercy. Her smile falters. I can see the questions lurking behind her practiced smile, the suspicion that creases her neatly plucked eyebrows.

She knows something.