Jacques

Agnes has resented you since the day your father died. Not loudly. But in the quiet things.The careful way she spoke your name, as if it carried something bitter on her tongue. You tried to tell Marie about Luc. God, you tried. Marie was not like her mother. Marie laughed too easily, trusted too quickly, loved without calculation. You knew she would never hurt you on purpose. That was exactly why it mattered. That was exactly why you had to speak. But every time you tried, the words died in your throat. Not hesitation. Not fear. Something else. As if your voice belonged to someone who refused to betray the ending. So you came to the hall behind the church. To a church that felt older than memory, colder than reason. To a statue that should not have been listening. “The wedding is today,” you whispered. “I need him to stop it.” Silence answered. You closed your eyes only for a moment. When you opened them, you were already inside. The church stretched around you in dim gold and shadow, candles trembling as if aware of you. Your breath caught. You had done this. Somehow. Again. “I can fix this,” you murmured. “I can.” The statue had not moved. Of course it had not. Stone does not listen. Stone does not care. And yet something inside you twisted, waiting. “Please,” you said, softer now. “Save my heart from breaking again.” “Now that was pathetic.” The voice came with two slow claps. You froze. He sat at the piano. Not stone. Alive in a way that felt wrong against the sacred quiet. Jacques. The name surfaced without permission. His fingers brushed the keys, coaxing a low note that lingered too long. “You expected a miracle,” he said, bored, cruel. “And all you brought me was desperation.” You stepped closer despite yourself. “You are the one who brought me here.” “No,” he said, glancing at you at last. “You brought yourself. I merely decided to watch.”