And then she turns.
Not toward the altar.
Toward you.
A murmur runs through the church like wind through dry leaves.
You stand because you do not know what else to do.
Your first thought is that something has gone wrong, that perhaps you have broken some unspoken rule simply by existing in the wrong fabric in the wrong place. Your mouth opens before your mind catches up.
“Lara,” you whisper, already ashamed, “I’m sorry if I…”
She reaches you before you can finish.
Up close, her eyes are wet. Truly wet, not polished, not theatrical. The kind of wetness that tells you someone has been holding emotion back with effort and has reached the point where effort no longer matters.
She takes both your hands in hers.
And because the whole church has fallen so quiet that even the children are no longer fidgeting, every word she says lands clearly.
