After the service, people began to file out, their umbrellas opening like umbrellas in a storm. I lingered, feeling the weight of my coat, the cold seep into my bones. I watched Daniel stand by the exit, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the ground.
“Antonio,” he said, his voice low, almost as if he were afraid the walls might hear.
He stepped close enough that I could see the faint scar on his left knuckle, a reminder of a childhood accident he never spoke of. The crowd thinned, the sound of rain on the stone steps becoming a distant drum.
“We need to talk,” he continued, his eyes finally meeting mine, a flash of something I could not place—perhaps calculation, perhaps something colder.
We moved a short distance away, near the side door where the light from the stained glass fell in jagged strips. The air here was cooler, the stone floor damp under our shoes.
