Chapter 42 The Weight Of Secrets

• The church stood at the edge of the world, or at least the edge of Willowbrook. Its steeple leaned like a drunkard, the cross atop it rusted and bent, as if even God had given up on this place.
• The coordinates from my mother’s journal had led me here, to this crumbling monument of forgotten faith.
• I stood at the threshold, the journal clutched tightly in my hands, its pages fluttering in the cold November wind.