A quiet road in northern Wisconsin, late autumn, the year the leaves never fell. Luna recalls a woman named Elara who arrived at Saint Jude's on a Tuesday night, asking for confirmation classes. But the woman already knew every prayer by heart. She knew the priest's private gestures. And when she laid her hand on the side door, the wood blistered. The diocese sent no records. The parish disappeared her from the files. But Luna finds herself, months later, still pressing her palm against that same cold wood, waiting for something to answer.

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