Isabelle waited by the window, fingers fidgeting with a thread on her sleeve. Outside, the fog was thick and silver, curling low over the ground like breath held too long. The house was clean, quiet, a little too quiet. She'd cooked too much food. The stew had gone lukewarm again. She reheated it.
On the table sat a small cloth pouch tied with twine — inside, a bracelet made of mismatched beads: bits of color she'd been collecting since she was seven. Some were chipped. A few were lopsided. But together, they spelled nothing and everything. A secret language only sisters knew.
She placed it next to Maribel's bowl.
Then — a knock at the door.
No, not a knock. A dull, slow thud.
Isabelle moved quickly, her heart skipping. She smoothed her hair, then opened the door.
There she was.
Maribel stood too tall for the doorway. She had to stoop slightly to fit inside, her long limbs folding in on themselves with an eerie sort of grace. Her dress was simple, faded white, hanging like wet paper from her frame. Her skin had gone pale, her cheeks hollowed out just enough to be noticed. But her eyes… they still looked like hers.
Sort of.
"Hi," Isabelle said, already smiling, already trying not to cry. "You made it."
Maribel nodded. Slow. Unsure.
Isabelle stepped forward, arms open, but Maribel hesitated — just for a second too long. Isabelle puts her arms back down and frowns.
"The food is probably getting cold," Isabelle whispered, pulling back. "I'll go warm it up again."
Maribel didn't answer. She looked around the room as if she didn't recognize it — like it was a painted set from a play she half-remembered. Her eyes rested on the table, the bowls, the little pouch with twine.
Isabelle followed her gaze. "I made you something," she said gently, picking up the pouch. "I started it a long time ago. You probably don't remember, but you used to collect beads from the garden fence and I'd always steal them."
She laughed softly, hoping it would warm the room.
Maribel said nothing, only nodded again — that same slow, delicate motion, like her neck was still learning what it meant to bend.
The bracelet clinked faintly as Isabelle spilled it into her palm. "You don't have to wear it or anything. I just… I wanted you to have something from me. Something normal."
Maribel blinked. Her fingers twitched.
Not cruel. Not sad.The stew was cold again.
They sat across from each other.
The stew steamed faintly in the bowls now — the third time Isabelle had reheated it. Soft slices of carrot, bits of barley, chunks of root vegetable all floating in a broth that smelled like thyme and something older, something from before.
Maribel hadn't touched hers.
She sat too straight. Her hands were placed neatly in her lap, shoulders drawn back, spine stiff as a rod. Her eyes drifted between the fork, the spoon, the unlit candle in the center of the table — as if waiting for someone to tell her which to pick up first.
"You can eat," Isabelle said softly. "It's yours."
Maribel glanced at her, startled, like a student caught whispering in class. Then, slowly, she picked up the spoon. She held it too delicately, like it might break in her grip. When she dipped it into the bowl, her movements were too practiced. Too ceremonial.
She brought the spoon to her lips but didn't eat. Her mouth barely opened.
Isabelle watched in silence, trying not to fidget. She took a bite of her own stew. "It's probably overcooked. I left it on too long. You know how I get."
Still no reply.
The silence grew until it threatened to buckle under its own weight — until Maribel, without warning, began to speak.
"And so He broke the flesh of the earth and poured its blood into their mouths..."
Isabelle froze.
The scripture spilled from Maribel's mouth in a soft, droning rhythm. Her eyes had dulled. She wasn't looking at Isabelle anymore. She wasn't looking at anything.
It was muscle memory.
Isabelle set her spoon down. "Hey," she said gently. "You don't have to do that. Gaius isn't here."
Maribel blinked once. Her lips parted as if to continue, then shut again. Her brow furrowed, just slightly. She stared down at her bowl.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You don't have to be."
"It felt… wrong to eat without it."
Isabelle didn't know what to say. So she reached for the pouch and untied it.
"Here," she said, holding out the bracelet. "I told you earlier, remember? It's from before. I wanted to give it to you before I forgot."
Maribel looked up. Her eyes narrowed, focusing in on the beads like they were foreign objects.
Isabelle pressed it gently into her hand. "You used to love the blue ones the most. That one's from the creek. The red one I got from that broken toy you used to throw at me. And that yellow one? That's from the necklace you snapped in half the day I ruined your hymnbook."
A ghost of something flickered in Maribel's face. It wasn't quite a smile. Just the muscle memory of one.
"I remember the hymnbook," she murmured.
"See?" Isabelle beamed. "You're still in there."
Maribel slowly slid the bracelet onto her wrist. It hung loosely — her wrists were thinner now, the bones sharper, the veins darker beneath her skin.
"It fits weird," she said.
Isabelle laughed softly. "That's okay. So do we."
That almost got a real smile.
Almost.
They returned to their food. Maribel stirred hers, as if trying to make it smaller. She ate one slow bite, chewing like it was unfamiliar. Then another.
Isabelle watched her carefully, then looked down at her own bowl.
She wanted to say I missed you or I'm glad you're home.
But she didn't.
She said, "Do you remember the last time we all ate together? Mom made those weird root pies."
Maribel nodded faintly. "She said they were symbolic."
"They were disgusting."
That brought a sound — not quite a laugh, more like an exhale that remembered joy.
"I didn't eat mine," Maribel said.
"Neither did I," Isabelle replied.
They returned to their food. Maribel stirred hers slowly, as if trying to make it smaller. She took a bite, then another — each one measured like medicine. Isabelle chewed in silence.
After a long pause, she said casually, "I visited Alexandra the other day."
Maribel didn't look up.
"Her son's really sick."
Still nothing. The spoon turned in the bowl.
"They think it's something respiratory. From one of the old sealed-off parts of the school."
Maribel finally blinked. "Yes. That's what they're saying."
Isabelle set her spoon down. "Do you know anything about it?"
Maribel's fingers twitched — just once. Then she shook her head.
"Only what they told me. They're doing their best."
"But what really happened?" Isabelle asked. "You're closer to all that now. I figured maybe..."
Maribel hesitated.
Then, calmly, like reading a page from memory:
"He went somewhere he wasn't meant to go. And he touched things that weren't meant for him. That's all it is."
Her tone was flat. Distant. Not angry. Just... resolved. Like it had already been decided long ago.
Isabelle felt something tighten in her chest.
Maribel set her spoon down and added, almost as an afterthought, "The Widow might know more. If anyone does."
"The Widow?" Isabelle repeated.
Maribel nodded. "She watches. She remembers things even the Church forgets."
The mention of the Widow left a strange stillness between them. Isabelle didn't know what to say, and Maribel didn't seem to notice. She was watching the bracelet now, letting the beads roll back and forth across the back of her hand. The red one caught the light — the one from the broken toy Isabelle used to tease her with.
Isabelle sat up straighter. She tried to sound casual.
"So… I've been thinking about joining the congregation soon."
Maribel didn't look up.
"I mean, I'll still be at the school for a while, but Gaius said there's a place for me. Real service. I'd get to help with the rites. Maybe even the Procession."
She smiled.
"I finally get to do something useful. Like you did."
That got a reaction.
Maribel's hand stopped moving. She lifted her gaze slowly, eyes unfocused, like someone coming out of a long, dark dream.
"You want to serve?" she asked.
"I do," Isabelle said. "It's all I've wanted for a while now. I'm ready."
Maribel's brow creased. Her mouth opened a little, but no sound came out at first.
She swallowed.
"Why?"
Isabelle blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Why do you want that?" Maribel asked again, softer this time. "Do you think it's going to make anything better?"
Isabelle shifted in her seat, suddenly unsure. "It's not about making things better. It's about… belonging. Being part of something greater. Like what you always said."
Maribel stared at her for a long moment. Then she looked down at the bracelet again, turning it on her wrist like she was trying to remember how it got there.
Finally, she said, "It's good."
Isabelle exhaled in relief. She beamed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
Isabelle clasped her hands together. "Well, if you think so, then I've got nothing to worry about." She laughed lightly, reaching across the table to take Maribel's hand.
Maribel flinched.
Not sharply. Just a quick, involuntary jerk — like a dog that's been hit before. She recoiled just enough for the distance to hurt.
"Sis—"
"Sorry," Maribel murmured, already pulling her hand into her lap. Her fingers twisted together, knuckles pale.
"It's alright," Isabelle said quickly, forcing a smile. "I didn't mean to— I just…"
She let the sentence trail off. There was nothing else to say.
The candle between them flickered once, casting strange shadows across the table. For a moment, Maribel's face looked hollow again — not empty, just worn thin. Like there wasn't much left holding her together.
Isabelle folded her hands and looked down.
Maribel watched her in silence.
Then, quietly:
"You're not useless."
Isabelle looked up.
"You never were."
The words didn't feel like comfort. They felt like a memory — something Maribel had been told once and didn't believe, but repeated anyway.
Isabelle gave her a soft nod. "Thanks."
They sat like that for a while. Neither of them touched their food again.