They reached the chapel steps. Glass windows held inward images: saints with eyes too bright, mouths stitched with gold. The art in the panes had been done by triumphant hands and repentant ones, a mosaic of compromise. A guard stood by the door, checked his list, and let the masker duo through without looking at their faces.
A murmur ran through the hall like wind through dried corn. The guard’s indignation faltered on the honesty of a single line: you keep saints in glass because you cannot keep them in your hands.
“Because,” the mother replied without heat, “sometimes people must hide to speak freely.”