The Altar, The Lies, His Penance

Housto

s the icy touch of memory. Leo' s innocent question about the photo, about

ry single souvenir of a love that was never truly mine. But some things, like the scent of old p

s wearing a white shirt, Mom, like a prince. And the flower

prince, but a boy. Young Carter Barry, caught in a moment of un

em to go. Back to a time when I still believed in promis

from a golden family. He moved through life with quiet confidence, every step precise, ever

ashing lights and polite applause. He was on stage, receiving yet another accolade. The crowd roared. But then, he did something unexpected. He paused, pic

nt light. Every small act of consideration from anyone outside of my immediate circle felt like a precious gift, hoarded and cherished. Th

istance, a silent observer of his dazzling life. I knew his schedule, his favorite co

nitor with something, his movements efficient and precise. Camilla, on the other hand, was slumped against the wall nearby, serving detention for yet a

gers brushing against the edge of her shadow on the sun-baked ground. A silent, yearning touch. He snatched his hand

r been for me. It was for Camilla. The sweetness of my childish crush curdled into something bitter, a

er mischief charming. My quiet obedience faded into the background, unnoticed. Now, even the brilliant, pe

kies, of admiring "disobedient little birds" who dared to fly against the wind. I understood then. He wasn' t drawn to my qu

ge proposal, eyeing a merger of fortunes and social standing. The Barrys, initially hesitant, cons

against his family' s unspoken disapproval of our family's new money. His grandmother, a formidable woman who had always dote

She declared Carter "boring, predictable, a gilded cage." She