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Summary
Rosaria knows, with every moment she observes Barbara, she knows. She wouldn’t quite say the realization pains her, but rather the nun pities her. She’s seen the type of love the girl holds in her eyes far too often, seen the want as her gaze watches the other from afar. But it’s not Rosaria that the little idol gazes upon with such reverence, no. If only the Archons had been so merciful to the poor thing. It’s someone the girl only calls out for in the darkest of hours of the night, with her hand clutching to her pillow, the other between her thighs. Sobbing out her name and begging her to appear as though she could make manifest the idol of her worship, with the feelings she knew would never be requited.