The figure held out a box no bigger than her palm. It was tied with twine and stamped with the same violet smudge.
The chapel breathed. Around them, others spoke in fragments—apologies, accusations, namings of old harms. Missed invitations, the letter never sent, the promise never kept. Each confession seemed to loosen a tightly coiled thing in the air, and with every admission the chapel’s bell tolled once, a note that felt like a thaw.