"God sees us as parents see their own children. As long as we sincerely repent, no transgression is beyond forgiveness." Dominic's voice grew gentler.
He was a cautious explorer, feeling his way through a mental labyrinth built from vague, obscure words, drawing near to something that vanished the instant he touched it.
At the moment Basket Weaver wavered and prepared to open his heart, that thing revealed a fleeting glimpse of something not yet a concept. Before he could think it through, it slipped away among the fragmented information.
Perhaps it was a shift in the pitch of a word, a seemingly casual furrow of the brow, an allusive hint that it had once been there.
"Give Him the burdens you feel you cannot bear. The Lord understands your struggles better than you do. He hears every sentence, every word."
When Dominic came to himself, his hand was already resting on the other man's shoulder, offering what seemed like steady, gentle encouragement—or perhaps nudging him to take his first step.
"My father... he may have done something that disturbed the dead." Saying it seemed to drain every last bit of strength from him. Little John buried his face in his arms, his whole body hunched over.
Feld warily surveyed the area, making sure no one was passing nearby.
"Why do you say 'may have'?"
"I didn't see it with my own eyes, but during that period... he was very strange."
It was unlike the way a son spoke of his father. The emotion in his words was changing, cooling at a pace even he hadn't noticed, sliding toward the detachment one felt toward a stranger, and even a trace of fear.
Once the labels were stripped away—the eccentric member of the family, the gifted craftsman, the father his child was