"How was school today?"

  I was face down on the couch in the living room when Mamie asked, my cheek pressed against the worn velvet upholstery that smelled faintly of lavender and old wood and home. I answered with a groan that came from somewhere deep in my chest, a sound that was more feeling than word.

  "Mmph."

  I heard her soft laugh, the kind that was gentle and knowing, the sound of someone who'd raised children and grandchildren and understood the entire vocabulary of adolescent suffering communicated through grunts and sighs.

  "That probably means it didn't go perfectly," she said.

  I turned my head slightly, just enough to see her standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Late afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains behind her, catching the silver in her hair and creating a halo effect that made her look softer, ethereal, like something out of an old painting. She was wearing her usual house clothes, a simple dress in deep blue, an apron tied at her waist still dusted with flour from whatever she'd been baking. Her hands, spotted with age, were clasped loosely in front of her, and her face held that expression of patient concern that was so uniquely hers.

  "You know," she said tentatively, moving into the room with that careful gait that spoke of hip pain she never complained about, "you can change schools without any problem if you don't feel comfortable at Sainte-Marguerite. Your grandfather and I, we want you to be happy, not miserable. A diploma from anywhere is still a diploma, chéri."

  I shifted on the couch, rolling slightly so I could look at her properly. The movement took more effort than it should have, my body heavy with that persistent exhaustion that had become my constant companion. "Everything's fine, Mémé," I said, my voice muffled slightly by the cushion. "Like always. It's nothing I can't handle. It's just that we got a new philosophy teacher and something about him feels wrong."

  She settled into her chair, the one by the window that had been hers for as long as I could remember, the upholstery worn smooth in the shape of her body. The light from outside fell across her face in bars, illuminating one side while leaving the other in shadow, and something in the composition of it, the way she sat with her hands folded in her lap, made my chest tight.

  "Wrong?" she said, her brow furrowing slightly. "In which way? You know that we know the family of the founder of the school. We could have you a new professor by the beginning of tomorrow if you feel that strongly about that new teacher."

  I sighed, pushing myself up to sitting, my spine protesting the movement. The room tilted slightly before steadying. "I know, Mémé. I know it would make things easier. It's just that doing it to someone just because they feel wrong, it's not something I'm comfortable with. It is something the other students would be fine with, that she," and by she, both Mamie and I knew we spoke of my mother, "would be fine with. If something is wrong about the teacher, if something needs to be done about him, I want it to be done after something wrong is found or proven sufficiently."

  The words hung in the air between us. Outside, I could hear the muted sounds of the city, traffic moving in the distance, someone's voice calling out in French, the world continuing in its indifferent way.

  I leaned forward slightly, my elbows on my knees, looking at her across the space that separated us. The light was fading now, that particular kind of winter light that turns everything gold and melancholic, that makes every moment feel weighted with significance, importance.

  "You understand where I am coming from, right, Mamie?" I whispered, and the question came out softer than I meant it to, almost begging.

  Something shifted in her expression, something that looked like heartbreak and understanding blooming together in the lines of her face. Her eyes, identical to my own, grew bright with unshed tears, and a watery smile came to life on her lips, trembling slightly at the edges.

  "Yes," she said, her voice thick. "I understand you."

  She stood then, moving toward me with that slow deliberateness that age required, and I made room for her on the couch. She sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched, and without words, without asking, she guided my head down to rest on her knees. Her hands found my hair, fingers moving through the curls with a gentleness that made my throat tight, softly, carefully, like I was something precious that might break under rough handling.

  We stayed like that for a moment, her fingers working through my hair in that rhythmic way that had soothed me since I was small, the motion so familiar it was almost muscle memory.

  "Do you know," she said finally, her voice quiet, contemplative, "that once, before your third birthday, you were so young and so much cuter back then, I met your mother at the Chapelle Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours."

  I shifted slightly, tilting my head back so I could look up at her face from this angle, seeing her features inverted, strange and familiar at once. "You never told me that before."

  And it was true. There were very few things I didn't know about my grandmother, courtesy of her always being ready to share with me experiences she'd had, stories from her youth, observations about life and people and the world. And me, never tired, always eager to listen, storing away each piece of her like I could keep her safe inside my memory, preserved forever.

  Her fingers paused in my hair for just a moment before continuing their gentle movement. "When there is someone you love with everything you have," she said, her voice taking on that quality it got when she was being careful with her words, measuring each one, "who you feel like their existence makes your day brighter, gives you a reason to go forward no matter how hard things can be, you do everything to not disappoint them. For them to only see the good, so that they may stay, so that their gaze when they look at you doesn't change."

  She drew in a breath, and I could feel the way her body tensed slightly, the way she was holding something back.

  "I didn't tell you, chéri, because I didn't want you to stop looking at me like that."

  The confession hung between us, heavy and aching. I could feel the weight of it, whatever she wasn't saying, whatever had happened in that chapel all those years ago.

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  I reached up, my hand finding hers where it rested on my head, threading our fingers together. Her hand was warm, the skin papery thin, the bones delicate beneath.

  "That's stupid, you know," I said softly, gently, trying to inject warmth into the words so she'd know I wasn't being cruel. "Caring, loving, it doesn't come easy to me. I don't know if it's because there is something wrong with me, if it's because of the two of them, or for any other reason. Because of this, I don't know much, but what I know is that no matter what you may have done, what Papi may have done, what sin you may have or will be committing, I don't think it'll change anything about what I feel."

  I squeezed her hand, feeling the fragile bones beneath, the pulse at her wrist beating steady and sure.

  "Because no matter what, I know that the two of you love me. Truly do love me. Unconditionally, without wanting anything back, that you cared. And this is why, and I know it's not healthy, but no matter what, no matter if you hurt others or me, no matter if tomorrow the world burns at your hands, atrocities are committed in your name, because of your actions, no matter if people suffer, I'll still love you."

  "Artemis, I," she started, and her voice broke on my name, splintered into something raw and wounded. She stopped at the I, unable or unwilling to continue.

  I smiled up at her, and I could feel the way my face arranged itself into something that was probably sad, probably wrong, but honest. "I guess that I am the type of person who loves like a dog who knows he's going to be euthanized by its owners. So no matter what, no matter if you tell me and can prove that you are the reason why she was so awful, why would I care about the tempestuous gale when it had been the one to cradle me in its soft embrace?"

  The tears that had been threatening in her eyes finally fell, sliding down her cheeks in silver tracks that caught the fading light. They fell silently, steadily, her face remaining composed even as she wept, and there was something in the image of it, her face tilted down toward me, the tears falling, the sorrow written in every line, that reminded me of something old and sacred, something painted on church walls and venerated in silence.

  "Yes," she whispered, her voice thick with grief. "I can see it. Hurting yourself as long as you think it can allow you to have our love. Never letting go and loving too much. That's indeed you. Your mom, my son, your father, your grandfather and I, we really fucked up, didn't we? You deserved so much better."

  She carefully moved my head from her lap, her touch infinitely gentle, and stood. For a moment she swayed slightly, and I almost reached out to steady her, but she found her balance. She crossed the room to where an old disc player sat on a shelf, a relic from another era, the wood casing polished to a soft shine from years of handling.

  Her fingers, trembling slightly, selected a disc from the collection beside it. She handled it with reverence, sliding it into the player with the care of someone performing a ritual. The machine hummed to life, and after a moment, music filled the room.

  It started quietly, strings building slowly, a soprano voice rising pure and clear, singing in Latin words I didn't understand but felt nonetheless. The melody was mournful, aching, beautiful in the way that grief is beautiful, in the way that pain can be transcendent when expressed through art. The music seemed to fill every corner of the room, seemed to press against my skin, seemed to reach inside my chest and wrap around my heart.

  She turned back to me, and the smile on her face was sad and lovely and terrible all at once. She extended her hands toward me, palms up, an invitation, an offering.

  "Mamie," I said, half-hearted complaint mixed with affection, a smile tugging at my lips despite everything.

  "Do you remember when you and I used to dance?" she asked.

  And I did. One of the things I used to do with my grandmother, that had become in a way our thing, only for the two of them, was slow dancing to the old tunes in her collection. In the words of my grandma, everyone should know how to slow dance. I had known then that she had begun this because she wanted me to have fun, to get me out of my funk about my mother and my father, and it had helped. Had helped more than I could articulate, those afternoons in this same room, her teaching me the steps, patient with my clumsy feet, laughing when I stepped on her toes, guiding me through the movements until they became second nature.

  It had become less common as her hip had started acting up, the pain making movement harder, making her more careful with her body. But the memory of it remained, warm and golden, preserved in the amber of nostalgia.

  "Of course I do," I said softly, taking her hands and letting her pull me up from the couch.

  My body protested, the exhaustion making every movement feel like moving through water, but I stood. She positioned us in the center of the room, in the space between the furniture, in the fading golden light that streamed through the windows.

  She placed one of my hands on her waist, took the other in hers. Her hand on my shoulder was light, barely there, and I could feel the tremor in it, age and emotion making her shake. I held her carefully, aware of how fragile she was, how time had worn her down into something delicate, how the woman who had seemed so strong and indestructible when I was smaller was now small herself, diminished, mortal.

  I didn’t like that so I stopped thinking about it.

  We began to move.

  Not really dancing, not in any formal sense, just swaying together to the music, small steps that barely qualified as movement. Her head came to rest against my chest, and I could feel the way she breathed, slow and measured, the rise and fall of her ribs beneath the fabric of her dress. My cheek rested against the top of her head, and I could smell her perfume, something floral and old-fashioned, mixed with the scent of flour and vanilla and home.

  The music swelled around us, the soprano's voice climbing higher, the strings underneath providing a foundation of sorrow. The Latin words washed over us, incomprehensible but deeply felt, speaking to something beyond language, beyond rational thought, tapping into something deep down inside me i wouldn’t know how to articulate.

  We moved together in the golden light, and I was acutely aware of every detail. The way her hand felt in mine, small and warm and fragile. The way my other hand rested on her waist, feeling the curve of her spine through the fabric. The way we fit together, despite the difference in our heights, despite the years between us, despite everything. The way the shadows in the room had grown longer, deeper, the darkness creeping in at the edges while the center remained illuminated.

  There was something in it, in this moment between the two of us, in the way we held each other, in the tenderness of the gesture, taht felt too right but in the wrong way, perfect in a way nothing should be perfect, that felt like something I'd seen before. Something akin to a thing painted centuries ago and preserved behind glass in museums, a thing depicting a moment of profound connection, of love that existed despite and because of suffering. The way her body curved toward mine, seeking comfort and offering it simultaneously. The way my arms encircled her, protective and gentle. The way the light fell across us, illuminating and concealing in equal measure.

  "Then let's dance and lose ourselves in the music," she said, her voice barely audible over the soprano's soaring notes. "For a moment, let's forget," and at those words, she spoke as if she was restraining herself from breaking down completely, each syllable carefully controlled, "everything. Let's forget the world."

  So we did.

  We swayed in the golden light, in the growing shadows, to music about sorrow and suffering and a mother's grief, and for those minutes, nothing else existed. Not school, not the substitute teacher who felt wrong, not my exhaustion, not my failing body, not the future looming uncertain and frightening, not the complicated history between my grandmother and my mother, not the sins committed or the guilt carried, not the world outside these walls with all its cruelty and indifference.

  Just us, just this moment, just the music and the movement and the love that was too big, too consuming, too much and never enough, the love that would destroy me when it was gone but that I couldn't let go of any more than I could stop breathing.

  Just us, dancing in the dying light, holding each other like we could keep time at bay through sheer force of will, like we could preserve this moment forever, like love alone could be enough to stop the world from taking what it always took in the end.

  Just us, and the music, and the gathering dark.