Chapter 3
Atlas
The girl hadn’t spoken a single word since I pulled her out of that house. Not one. She barely even breathed. She sat curled against the car door, stiff and silent, gripping her nightgown with both hands like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
Maybe it was. It was the last piece of the life she had. The last thing that connected her to a home and a family she’d never see again.
Everything else had been taken from her in a single night. So she held on to what was left.
The further we got from the city, the darker the roads became. Streetlights disappeared. Houses thinned out. The road narrowed into a strip of cracked asphalt swallowed by trees and old stone walls that looked like they’d been standing since the world began.
When we reached the small fork in the road, I pulled over, killed the engine, and stepped out. Cold night air hit my face like a warning. Gravel crunched under my boots as I walked around to her side.
I opened the door.
“Out.”
She hesitated—for one second, maybe two—before she climbed out. Her legs buckled. She gripped the door frame to keep from collapsing. She still wouldn’t look at me. She wouldn’t even lift her chin.
That should have made this easier.
Instead, guilt dug under my ribs, harsh and insistent. A thought I hated flashed through my mind: maybe killing her would’ve been kinder than leaving her to survive a world that wouldn’t spare her twice.
I forced it away.
The convent sat at the end of a gravel path, lit only by the moon. A long stone building with narrow windows and a bell tower that looked too small to protect anyone. It was quiet. Still. Untouched by the kind of violence that had created both of us.
I’d been here before—more times than the sisters probably wanted to remember.
A donation when our reputation needed polishing. Money for repairs after a storm tore off part of their roof. Cash for a new heating system when the old one failed.
Every time, Sister Ana accepted it with a tired nod—always grateful, but never surprised. Resigned to knowing exactly which sins were paying her bills but choosing not to say it out loud.
Tonight, the door opened before I could knock.
Sister Ana stood there.
She was older than I remembered. Thinner. But her eyes hadn’t changed. She was still astute enough to narrow her eyes in suspicion as I stood on her front doorstep.
“Atlas,” she exclaimed, not hiding her surprise.
“Sister Ana.”
Her gaze dropped to the girl beside me. The girl stiffened.
“We don’t usually see you this late.”
“It was an urgent matter.”
“I don’t recall a time when you came and it wasn’t urgent.”
I ignored that and stepped aside so she could see the girl clearly. She didn’t lift her head. She was shaking, small, silent.
“She’s an orphan. She needs somewhere safe.”
Sister Ana studied her, her slow, careful eyes too perceptive. Then her eyes cut back to me.
“We’re not equipped for children. We can send her to an orphanage in the city.”
“No.” The word slipped out harsher than I intended. I forced my voice steady. “She stays here.”
Sister Ana lifted a brow. “You don’t usually make such direct requests, Atlas. Who is the girl to you?”
She looked her over slowly, taking in the dirt on her skin, the way she wouldn’t lift her head, the bloody nightgown hanging off one shoulder. Her expression tightened. Then her eyes snapped up to mine, more alert than before.
“I didn’t hurt her,” I snapped. “But she needs safety and a roof. That’s all I ask.”
“And why here?”
Because I had taken everything from her. Because I couldn’t undo the damage, but I could keep the world from finishing the job. Because leaving her at the mercy of strangers felt like more than my conscience could carry.
But I didn’t say any of that. My mind kept running, and I forced myself to look down at the girl again instead of answering what I was really thinking.
“She’ll be safe here,” and it was the only truth I was willing to offer.
Sister Ana looked at me a moment longer, like she was trying to see what was under my skin. She must not have liked what she found, because her expression softened into something that felt too close to pity.
“Very well,” she answered quietly, reluctantly.
I reached into my coat and pulled out an envelope. It was thick, heavy, more than enough to buy her silence. I handed it over.
“Her name?” Sister Ana asked.
I hesitated. Because I didn’t know it. And even if I did, saying it out loud made this real in a way I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You’d have to ask her.”
Sister Ana nodded once. “We’ll take care of her.”
The girl didn’t move when the nun reached for her. She was frozen, stiff, staring at the ground. Sister Ana touched her shoulder gently and spoke in a soft voice.
It took a long moment before the girl’s feet started moving. She followed Sister Ana inside without looking back and the door shut behind them.
I stood there in the cold air, listening to the quiet.
This should have felt like success. One loose end tied.
One mistake buried. But as I walked back to the car, something sat heavy in my chest. I told myself it was nothing.
That she was no threat. That this was mercy, nothing more.
I told myself I’d forget what I’d done by morning.
But I knew I was lying.