~ Mrs. Stockholm ~

“May the soul of Elder Jonathan, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace,” Father Romanus declares, tracing the sign of the cross in the air.

“Amen,” the congregation choruses.

The collective rustle of fabric echoes through the sanctuary as hundreds of people mimic his movement and rise from the pews.

Next to me sits Mrs. Monroe, grief-stricken and dressed in black.

Our knees touch beneath the pew.

She doesn’t move away. Neither do I.

If anyone in this church noticed the way her fingers curl around mine during prayer, we would both be crucified before sunset.

Our...