Father Michael took a deep breath, the weight of yet another funeral pressing on him as he approached her casket. He’d never met Eleanor in person, yet something about her presence had always seemed familiar, almost hauntingly so. As he moved closer, a strange compulsion stopped him.
It was something that he couldn’t explain. He paused, then leaned in, bowing his head to begin the prayer. But as he did, his gaze drifted to her neck, and he froze.
“What does this mean?”
A chill shot through him, his hand reaching up to press against his neck. He was well aware that everyone was looking at him, but still, he couldn’t help himself. This is impossible, he thought.
His heart hammered as memories flooded him, half-forgotten sounds and incidents from his years in the orphanage, from the searches for any record of his parents. The longing he’d held onto for so long stirred within him, demanding answers. Is there a connection between Eleanor and me?
he wondered. After the service, as the organ played its final verse, the mourners began to disperse, and Father Michael approached Eleanor’s children. They were all clustered near the altar, as her daughters decided who was taking home the floral bouquets.
His request hung on his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was ready to speak. “I’m sorry for interrupting,” he said. “But I… I need to know something.”
“Of course, Father,” Jason, the youngest son, said.
“Whatever you need.”
“I just wanted to know if there’s any chance that Eleanor… if she might have had a child. Another child, I mean. Years ago.
