Stop, Emily told herself, wanting to leave but transfixed by the beauty of the song. It was sad and hopeful, all at once, even though she couldn’t understand the words. She sat down on the nearest pew, dropped her head automatically and began to murmur the Lord’s Prayer. As she did so, she thought of how churches carried all the highs and lows of life, the beginning and the end, all under one roof. She also thought about how she hadn’t ever said goodbye to her parents.

It had been decided she was too weak, too vulnerable, to attend the funeral, that the ordeal would prove too much for her, and she needed her rest. It had been decided, for her, without ever asking what she wanted to do.

Her parents were buried, side by side, on a hilltop in London. She was taken there, only once, the last time she visited the city, to leave red roses on their graves. Her grandmother had chattered away about the likes of Douglas Adams and Karl Marx also being laid to rest in the same location. She had probably thought that her words, her ordinary, light-hearted, words, could distract Emily from the horror of what she was being forced to do.

Emily wiped at her eyes as she remembered, looked up to see a statue of an angel, kneeling in prayer. She had run away from her grandmother that day. Just like a child playing hide-and-seek, only she hadn’t wanted to be found, so she curled up behind an angel at rest, wings neatly folded and eyes closed. Her grandmother had searched the graveyard, calling out Emily’s name until finally she stumbled back onto the path, asked if they could please go back to Norfolk.

It had been so much easier to hide, to bury everything deep, to deny all the sorrow, all the regret, to allow her grandmother to wrap her up in cotton wool and fend off all the demons, anything that might threaten to break her, to make her feel.

“Stai bene?” A priest hovered at the end of the pew, hands hidden inside the sleeves of his vestments and a look of patience, of kindness, on his lined face. Emily resisted the urge to throw her arms around him, feeling like an idiot for imagining how he might take her into the confessional, cleanse her of all her sins, then give her a cup of tea and a biscuit before sending her on her way.

“I need to find someone.” Emily handed over the map, noticing that she had torn a hole in one corner.

The priest smiled back, said something in Italian and beckoned for Emily to follow him to the door. He pointed along the street, then gave back the crumpled map. As he did so, he clasped Emily’s hand between his own, staring deep into her eyes, then at her scar.

For a moment the world stilled, and the two strangers stood, not saying a word. Emily felt the air around her stir, let go the breath in her lungs and registered the beat of her heart as it began to slow. The priest murmured to her, low vibrations of sound escaping his lips, landing on her skin, embalming her with their intent.