Emilia looked up as the feathers graced her smooth chin. Her eyes looked tired and worn.

“This house has a lot of memories for me,” she said. “Most of them bad.”

“I gathered,” I said.

She nodded, leading me into the other rooms of the house. “This was my mom’s room, after they divorced. She never used it much; usually slept on the couch downstairs. It reminded her too much of Dad.”

I looked around at the threadbare gossamer curtains around the grimy windows, one blowing slightly in the breeze from the opened window. It gave me the creeps.

“I’d like to confess,” Emilia announced suddenly, marching out of the bedroom. “Back in my room. Let’s go.”

“Um – I’m not a priest,” I stammered.

She looked back with a funny look on her face. “And priests aren’t angels. C’mon.”

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