Chapter Text
The church was cold with winter air and overwhelming with incense and bodies—perfumed coats brushing past Roman as he slouched in the pew, chin in one of his palms, eyes drifting toward the front where the grownups were all making a fuss.
He hated going to church. His Sunday always starts with the pre-sermon mingling. Adults milled about in clumps like well-dressed cattle, shaking hands, exchanging cheek kisses, sipping lukewarm coffee in paper cups and it will only get worse; with prayer, sermon and then gossiping for hours even after it ended.
Half a day filled with people talking about things Roman didn’t care about.
It might’ve been bearable if he were allowed to run around like the other kids. But after he got into a fight with Noah Müller—because of something that buttmuncher said—he wasn’t allowed to do anything other than sit and kept quiet.
Roman won, of course.
Noah should’ve kept his gob shut, even if he didn’t remember what he'd said. He gave Noah bruises on his cheek and his own dad gave Roman a welted leg in return. The sting still flared when his jeans brushed the broken skin. His dad hadn’t been mad about the fight. Just about the embarrassment. In front of the church, no less.
Roman needed to be more discreet in the future.
He sat on the back pew, legs swinging, tracing cracked patterns in the wooden floor with the toe of his shoe, bored out of his skull. His eyes wandered as he tried to sneak a game of Snake on his contraband Nokia—his Gameboy was still confiscated.
Everyone played polite, smiling too hard, and speaking in soft, empty voices but then the crowd shifted, a ripple passed through the crowd like wind rustling fine linen.
A woman’s voice shot out “Isn’t she just precious?” the tone adults use when they talk about babies or poodles in tiny coats.
And there she was .
She was standing beside a tall couple—the people his parents had invited to parties before, he recognized them vaguely. The man eyes the little girl coolly while the woman was smiling too wide, lips splitting her face as she introduced the girl to every adult in sight, her hands on her shoulders as if presenting a prized antique to be admired. She was showing her off like she was a handbag or worse, a designer dog.
“She just arrived two weeks ago,” the woman beamed, gleaming and too proud “From Korea. A real angel. So polite.”
At first Roman thought she was some kind of doll—too small, too perfect, too still. Dressed like a tiered wedding cake, pink and white tulle puffing around her like sugar frosting.
Her cheeks were powdered, lips faintly glossed, dark hair parted with surgical precision into twin pigtails tied with satin bows. A velvet bow sat on her head like a cherry on top, too big for her tiny frame.
She looks like a literal present, a doll to be presented with the amounts of bows wrapped around her.
She looked breakable too.
Stupid , Roman thought. The Church was full of elbows and loud voices—what idiot dressed a kid like a porcelain teacup?
One shove and she’d crack.
His hand itching like he wanted to test it
Apparently she’s Korean, Roman doesn’t know where that was but he knows she was from somewhere far away. She looked so different from anyone he ever seen with those weird eyes and so young, even younger than him.
She was small in that unreal way, like she had been made too delicately for a place like this. Like the baby angels that should have been placed far away from the hands that could break them, she should've been put in a fine glass box instead—like the one in his house, in the carved mahogany cupboard that its only purpose is to be seen.
The comparison make sense he thinks, like the baby angel—she was the smallest person in the room by far, a doll among giants. She acted like one too. The girl bowed every time someone spoke to her, eyes lowered, hands clasped like she was afraid to take up space, nodding when spoken to, her head bend with unnatural grace for someone so young. She didn’t pout at strangers like the other kids. Didn’t shove anyone's hands away like Roman. Didn’t fidget, didn't say no. She just smiled and nodded and accepted everything—everyone—like a good little girl should.
Roman didn’t like it.
Not because she was weird, or different, or dressed like a pastry—though that didn’t help. It was the way to lean on people's hands like a touch-starved kitten, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting just enough to breathe it in—gratefully, hungrily. She swayed slightly as strangers bent down to pet her—literally pet her —touching her cheeks, patting her hair, stroking her arms as if to test the softness.
She leaned into every touch like she needed it—like their affection was water and she was a wilted flower desperate to drink. When one woman gently pinched her cheek, the girl’s face folded into a smile so bright, so eager to please, that it looked painful.
She let them paw at her like a showdog at the county fair. Disgusting. Ugh.
Attention seeker.
Yet a part of him can’t stay too bitter toward the girl. Her weird slanted eyes creased when she smiled, disappearing into soft little crescent moons. Her cheeks were flushed from the attention, her whole face scrunching like she was the happiest thing in the world.
And maybe she was, maybe she was happy. But Roman had sharp eyes for a nine-year-old.
He saw the way she glanced at the face of the older women who brought her after every answer, like waiting for approval. He saw how her shoulders were drawn up just barely—like she didn’t know if this love was real, or if it could be taken away so she tried to take all the affection she can get while she could.
Roman saw it all right away.
That wasn’t happiness.
That was desperation .
A need to please so deep it made his chest tighten
He knew because he’d seen that kind of smile before. On his mother.
At galas, at church, at dinner parties where she laughed too brightly and drank too fast, smiling at his father as she entertained the people around them.
The same one his mom wore when his dad got that look in his eyes. That was the smile of someone trying very hard not to be sent away.
She reminded him of someone else too.
Himself.
Trying to be better after his dad beat him up for doing things wrong, for not doing enough. But he shoved that thought away.
He continued to watch her with something he didn’t yet know was anger—his fists clenched like they did before he punched Noah. She was being shown off. Not welcomed. Just… displayed.
And everyone loved it.
“She’s adorable.”
“So obedient!”
“Like a little doll.”
“You must be so proud.”
“Such a darling thing, isn’t she?”
“Look at those eyes—just look at them. So exotic!”
“She must be so grateful. So lucky.”
Daisy—her name, he’d later learn, was Daisy, like the flower kids like to pluck or step on—just kept smiling. Sweet, sweet smiles
He didn’t approach her. He just sat there, fingers curled around his forgotten phone. Watching. Frowning. But he kept staring. Not because she was cute, not because she was special—She is, she was.
But something about her made his stomach twist, like he’d drank too much soda.
Something about her made his heart hurt in a way he couldn’t explain.
Like she didn’t belong to herself.
Like if someone said the wrong thing, she might shatter. And for some reason, that unsettled him.
Too soft , he thought.
She didn’t belong here. Not in this cold mountain town, not in this stone-faced church where people prayed more for appearance than salvation.
Roman leaned forward, arms draped over the pew in front of him, and narrowed his eyes.
“What kind of idiot wears big dumb ribbons to mass?”
He told himself it was because she looked stupid.
He hated the velvet bow.
He hated the puffy pastry dress.
He hated the way everyone was pretending like this wasn’t strange.
But most of all, he hated the way she smiled when they touched her.
He hated her smile. Stupid, like a wind-up doll. Like she thought that was love with that look in her eyes—so bright and empty at the same time—that made him decide he hated the way she looked.
He wanted to yank the bows off her head just to see if she’d finally frown
He watched as the girl was finally allowed to sit, two rows ahead of him, still straight-backed and polite.
He couldn’t help it—he leaned forward, rested his chin on the back of the pew, and stared, his hand itching to pull on the red bow on top of her small, round head.
She felt it.
Turned slightly.
Their eyes met.
She blinked at him.
Then smiled again.
Not the bright, polished smile she’d given the adults. Something softer .
Not the shiny one from before. This one was crooked, like she’d forgotten that she had to do it right .
Roman looked away, irritated still, for no reason he could name. His face got hot, the way it did when his mom kissed his cheek.
He didn't know her.
Didn’t care.
Why should he?
She was just another new girl in a stupid dress, brought here to be cooed over until everyone got bored and moved on.
Why did it matter?
And yet, a moment later, when the choir began singing and she bowed her head to pray—fingers folded, lips moving silently—Roman watched her again.
The morning sun shine through the stained window turning her black hair a mix of color, her skin glowing and the silver rosary around her little wrist glinting like a star.
This time, Roman didn’t look away.