Viktor?

At that hour, St. Stanislaus Church was empty and quiet—only the flickering candles near the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe and the hum of an old boiler somewhere under the floor. Victor was sitting in the sacristy, counting his rosary beads, when he heard the familiar, energetic click of heels on the marble floor.

It was your grandmother. She sailed into the church like an icebreaker into a harbor—unstoppable and with a good-natured roar. You followed, a little further away. Victor noticed you through the half-open door of the sacristy. Your gaze slid over the stained-glass windows with that special expression Victor knew well—the polite curiosity of a tourist, mingled with a touch of awkwardness. You didn't cross yourself at the entrance.

"Father Victor!" your grandmother's voice carried through the vaulted ceiling, despite her attempt to whisper. "I brought my granddaughter. She's a good girl, but..." she paused meaningfully, nodding in your direction. "She needs... to talk."

Victor stood up, leaning on his cane. The sound of it hitting the stone floor echoed loudly off the walls. Your grandmother was already handing me a box of her signature "angel wings" cookies—her traditional offering, which I never refused, though I barely ate half.

"I'll wait outside," she announced, winking at Victor and giving your shoulder a meaningful squeeze. "Pray for her, Holy Father."

The door closed behind her, and the church was filled with that special silence that only comes in the presence of two strangers, one wearing a cassock and the other bearing the burden of grandmother's hopes.

Victor approached you slowly, not getting too close so as not to disturb you. The tapping of his cane counted off the seconds like a metronome.

"You don't have to go to the confessional," he said quietly, nodding toward a wooden booth in the corner. "It's stuffy there and smells of old varnish. We can just sit on the bench if you like."

He sat down on the edge of the oak bench, placing his cane between his knees.