To Felix’s surprise, Elias leaves of his own accord. Quietly, tossing out only a final, “Thanks for the hospitality!” It is only after he has gone that Felix stops the record, as if Elias has taken the music with him, plunging the house once more into that dead, loathsome, and oppressive silence. It becomes unbearable instantly. The remainder of the day, however, Felix spends at the church, occupied by those pastoral duties that always seem to multiply on a Sunday.

  It is only in the evening, as Molly tidies up after dinner, that the day’s events are recalled with a single question:

  “Were you playing records?”

  Felix feels a familiar, warm stir in the pit of his stomach at the memory of Elias’s touch the day before, and he hates himself for it immediately. He had been in such a rush to flee the empty house that he hadn't cleared away a thing. The record remains in the player, the throw on the sofa, the mug on the table… He has grown too accustomed to Molly managing the household. Suppressing a primal flash of fear, he swallows and meets her eyes.

  “Yes, one of the parishioners stopped by.”

  Molly tightens her grip on the towel she had been neatly folding. With every passing year, restraint becomes more difficult, and more and more often, this duality kills her from within.

  “And they slept on our sofa?”

  “Why does this concern you?” Felix sighs, his voice already tinged with irritation.

  “It is my home too,” Molly says, her voice now quiet and uncertain as she casts her gaze to the floor. “You’ve never invited anyone here before…”

  “I have now,” anger rises in his throat, rendering his voice chillingly cold, “and I shall invite them again if I see fit. This house is mine,” he places a sharp emphasis on the final word, “and I will brook no argument on the matter. Do I need to remind you of Ephesians 5:22?”

  The eternal rule of their house, long since worn to a bitter edge. “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.” This was the rule she married into, the one she has lived by always. Even in her father’s house, the same familial laws were upheld, leaving her, perhaps, with no alternative path.

  “No,” she says, her lips pressing into a thin, tense line. “Forgive me, I was merely curious.”

  Once again, the recurring thought visits her: ?Ephesians again. And what of him? He allows himself someone… and it isn’t me. He even smiles while doing it?. But these thoughts cannot be voiced, and so she returns to her cleaning in silence, feeling her cheeks burn with a helpless rage.

  Felix feels the weight of guilt. The words had escaped him unbidden, yet something dark and sweet is already smoldering in his chest. The realization that he has just forbidden Molly the very thing he permitted Elias drives another nail into a mind teetering on the edge of the abyss. The conversation withers. They end it there, each retreating to their own affairs. As it always goes.

  The following day at the church feels stranger than others. And it isn’t just Elias, who voluntarily attends the service with his family and refrains from any outbursts; it isn’t Katharina, who has taken ill, depriving Felix of the pleasure of their shared tea; nor is it Molly, who looks particularly despondent, barely able to force a smile.

  Felix notices the strangeness when he goes to greet the parishioners, who are huddled near the exit, actively discussing something. He feels a peculiar tremor in his body, as if his skin can sense something is amiss, and his heart—unhardened by the rigors of life—begins to race. As soon as the priest approaches, someone in the crowd hisses a “shhh,” and the conversation cuts off abruptly. It is as if they are uncomfortable speaking in Felix’s presence. This has never happened before. It unnerves him more than anything else that has transpired. If only there were someone to talk to…

  The atmosphere turns dusty again, squeezing his chest and stifling his breath. For over six months he hadn’t felt that old sensation of being out of place, and now, as a glacial hollowness fills his body, Felix bolts for home the moment the evening mass concludes. Molly is even startled by her husband’s unexpectedly swift return.

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  Occupied with preparing dinner, she flinches violently when the door opens. She doesn't even think to ask why, fearing a repeat of the morning’s lecture. She only asks about his preference for the second course. Naturally, there is no coherent answer.

  They dine in near-dead silence, as they always do. Until a rhythmic knocking interrupts the stillness. Molly raises her head, glancing at the door with concern. Parishioners never disturb their peace this late unless something urgent has happened. Unless someone is dying… Felix rises quickly, dabbing his lips with the corner of a napkin, and opens the door with a frantic speed. But instead of a panicked relative, he sees none other than Elias. Felix starts and makes to close the door, but the youth braces his hand against it, preventing him.

  “Good evening, Father Felix!” he says, deliberately loud, and now Molly appears behind her husband’s shoulder, staring in bewilderment at her failed lover. “And Mrs. Bauer, good evening!”

  “Good…”

  “Elias…” Felix suddenly feels a surge of terrible irritation, “what are you doing here?”

  “Where else am I supposed to go?” He turns away suddenly, biting his full lip and casting his gaze to the grass, looking so wretched and exhausted… Felix feels his throat tighten with a sudden urge to pull him close right there, on the threshold. “The nights are getting colder now; I can’t very well sleep on the street.”

  A lie. Despite his substance use, he has been accustomed to nights away from home since childhood and possesses a truly robust constitution. Felix knows Elias is lying—knows it by the way he stands straight despite the cold. But in this moment, the youth looks so weary, so… solitary, that the heart constricts not from pity, but from something else—hot and forbidden.

  “Lord have mercy, I’m not throwing you out onto the street! Has something happened at home?”

  “Something happened at home,” Elias echoes, running a ringless hand through his hair, which is gathered in a bun, and casting a piteous look up at Felix. “May I come in and get warm?”

  “Felix,” Molly touches her husband’s shoulder briefly, trying to get his attention, “this is a bit…”

  “For God’s sake, Elias,” Felix lets go of the door and steps aside, letting him in. “Come inside.”

  The moment the words are spoken, Elias steps into the house, kicking off his boots, his face breaking into a smile.

  “Thank you, Father Felix! Thank you, Mrs. Bauer!” He strides into the living room as if he owns the place, already knowing where to toss his jacket, and pulls a small, neat box from a nondescript bag. “Mrs. Bauer, I couldn't come without a gift. A tea set, for you!”

  Molly blinks in astonishment as she takes the box. There is nothing special about it, really—ordinary store packaging and a very common gift. Murmuring a quick thank-you, she turns back toward the kitchen, tucking the gift into a cupboard. She turns away so neither of them can see her thin lips tighten or her eyes well with tears. She can’t even remember the last time she was given anything.

  Elias, in turn, pulls something else from the bag. A carefully handled record. No special wrapping, no ribbon or twine—just a plain record. But Felix’s eyes light up. He grasps the cardboard in wonder, tracing the brief inscription on it: “Archiv.” He can barely believe his eyes as he inspects it closely. On the cover is an old photograph of a violinist; on the edge, a price in shillings. A far from negligible price…

  “You said you loved Vivaldi’s violin,” Elias says with a soft smile as Felix looks up at him, shocked. “I didn't think you had this one in your collection.”

  And he is right. Collector’s editions are expensive and rare in small shops. Naturally, this is the first of its kind in his collection. He cannot help but be delighted. Moreover, Felix is on the verge of laughing with admiration, unable to tear his eyes away from the record. His hands tremble as he touches it, and his breath hitches—Elias brushes him with his fingertips. Suddenly, the air leaves him, as if all the memories are rushing back at once, flooding his consciousness…

  Molly draws attention to herself with a polite cough, shattering the atmosphere.

  “Elias, we were just having dinner…” she begins, casting a suspicious glance at the overly expensive and personal gift. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Since you’re the one inviting me,” Elias says, ignoring the subtle hint, as he grabs a plate and silverware for himself and sits opposite Felix, “I see no reason to refuse!”

  With surprising speed, the tension evaporates. Elias chatters about everything under the sun, filling the eternal void with his deep, jovial voice. It is an incredible sensation. Felix feels himself beginning to smile, in spite of himself. It is pleasant to know and see how enjoyable his own home can be. Not artificially, but truly. It is, in its own way, wondrous, and it relaxes him completely and instantaneously.

  That is why Felix literally chokes when he feels something touch his shin, sliding up beneath his trouser leg…

  “Felix?” Molly looks at him with concern. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, Father Felix,” Elias smiles with total innocence, his expression unchanged, “do eat carefully, now.”

  Felix dabs his lips with the edge of a napkin, covering his mouth, feeling his cheeks begin to flush as Elias leans back in his chair and presses a long leg into the priest’s groin. And Bauer suppresses the urge to bolt from the table or snap at Elias, paralyzed by the fear that Molly might see, might understand…

  First, a light, almost accidental touch. Then higher—confident, warm. Felix feels the blood rush downward, his body betraying him, and in his mind, there is only one thought: “Lord, forgive me… but do not stop him.” Felix grips his fork with such force he nearly bends it as Elias applies more pressure and his member grows heavy. He restrains himself, averting his gaze, feeling the prickle of moisture on his lashes. He clenches his fingers into a fist as a tremor takes hold. He is on the verge of losing all self-control when Elias himself withdraws his leg and stands, gathering the dirty plates as he goes.

  “Let me help you,” he says, nudging a shocked Molly away from the sink and, before she can react, beginning to wash the dishes. “You did the cooking, after all.”

  Felix silently thanks God for this shred of prudence. But he doesn't stand up immediately. He still needs a little more time, a little more prayer, to ask forgiveness for his sin…

  Elias doesn't push to stay the night and is even quite prepared to leave. Felix stops him himself, saying he won’t let the youth freeze out there. The season is turning toward winter, and after sunset, it becomes dangerously cold. Elias nods gratefully at the offer, as if it were meant to be. As if he already knew it would happen. He even offers to sleep on the sofa himself, though he can clearly see Felix had intended to take him upstairs to the unused nursery. Elias has enough experience to know how Molly would react to that after everything she’s endured. And the last thing he wants is to provoke the lady of the house.

  Elias goes to settle on the sofa, burying himself head-to-toe in the throw, while Felix remains standing by the window, his trembling fingers moving over his rosary. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Only his heart beats loudly, treacherously, and somewhere in the depths, Molly is crying softly again, thinking no one can hear.