HIS NEIGHBOR WOULDN’T STOP REPORTING THE SOUND OF A GIRL CRYING INSIDE HIS HOUSE—THEN HE HID BENEATH HIS DAUGHTER’S BED AND HEARD HER PLEAD FOR SOMEONE TO SPARE HER

That was the mercy he lived inside.

Not innocence.

Not absolution.

Mercy.

One Sunday years later, Thomas visited Ana’s grave with Lucia. They brought yellow flowers because Ana had loved yellow flowers and said white ones looked too much like apologies. Lucia stood before her mother’s headstone, quiet for a long time.