Chapter Text
Even she gets to know that a new pope was elected in Rome. She lifts her head from his silent prayer for her daughter again—God, let her live and live happy—to see the face of the very father of her daughter. She swallows, thankful that her expression is well obscured behind her hoody head cover.
It’s him.
It’s the beautiful, soft voiced priest she forced herself into.
Tears prickle her eyes. Will she ever be forgiven for that? That was decades ago but she can never erase the distressed expression from her head; his large, frightened brown eyes, the thick dark curls curtaining his beautiful face…
The same curls stay around his face as he raises his hand rather shyly to the mass in the square. She swallows. Oh, surely God loves him so for he is still so beautiful. And his daughter… his and hers…
She has to leave the room where the television is. She has to pray whether she believes in God or not, at least for their daughter.
But, that day, God is seemingly—though understandably—deeply disappointed in her. She prays harder, this time for their daughter.
Love, I hope you are well. I hope you are loved and happy.
*)*
You sneeze.
Summer has yet to leave Rome. Roman summer is no longer makes you wish your apartment is newer and has better cooling system and for once you get to enjoy the warm night, the night that finds you step outside the PR office as the last employee in the building.
You look up. The stars are very faint in the city.
(Sometimes, you feel like someone is praying for you. Maybe it’s your biological mother. Sometimes, you can almost feel it. This led you to various worship places growing up and even now as an adult. You wondered whether God truly exists, whether He would show His face to you, to whispers you kindly about the secret of your past.)
But you have your mom, you once again remind yourself.
A shriek, followed by more noises, drag your attention to a group of nuns in the distance. One of them collapsed and you ran into them. “Is she okay?” you curse your immediate English but they respond about her declining health as of late. Ambulance is called, you shakily performed a first aid, and a tiring fifty minutes later you find yourself inside a kitchen in one of the Casa, drinking from a small bottle of San Pellegrino given by the eldest nun around.
“Thank you,” you say weakly as she supplies you with the second bottle once you finish your first one. You sweat a lot during the emergency. You hope you are not too stinky.
The elderly woman has a rather tough face and expression, but she is very beautiful anyway. You stare at her in your state of exhaustion until you clear your throat and she lets out a surprising gentle laugh, “That is alright, my child.” Her accent is Italian.
She glances at your employee ID, tucked into your short sleeved dress shirt’s breast pocket, the pastel pink lanyard still around your neck. “Ah, so you are one of us,” she says rather kindly.
You chuckle and tug the card out, showing her your name, “Yes. A very new member, though, I must inform you, Sister…?”
“Agnes.”
“Sister Agnes.” you repeat, before slumping again.
“Have you had any dinner?” she asks.
You shake your head, “No, but I have meal prepped some pasta dishes back in my apartment. I better be off.” You finish your bottle of water and have to insist to Sister Agnes that you are fine, you don’t need to eat that exact moment, and finally she lets you go after insisting that you bring home a small box of tiramisu from one of the massive fridges.
As you leave, your tired state doesn’t register that you pass some men in black and that one of them is Thomas, who comes to get something that might satisfy Vincent’s need for spicier food—though Vincent has begged Thomas that he will live without the spicy food for the night—and Thomas watches your back vanishes outside the Casa’s gate.
“Is that [Your Name]?” he asks Sister Agnes.
“Oh, you know her, Your Eminence?”
“I met her several times.”
Sister Agnes unknowingly repeats Ray’s words, “She looks exactly like him.” (She was staring too but she was so much better at hiding it than you.)
Thomas laughs an awkward, polite English laugh, “Well, she is a beautiful young lady. Now, Sister Agnes, if you can help me with some spices…”