They reached the chapel by dusk.
It stood broken, swallowed by moss and moonlight, half its roof caved in and ivy choking the spires like nature itself wanted it forgotten. The same map Clara had hidden in her desk had led them here — to the edge of the old convent woods, beyond the border even local maps refused to mark.
Stanley killed the engine.
Neither of them moved.
Orla stared at the structure through the windshield. “She was here.”
“She left blood,” Stanley said quietly. “But not her body.”
They got out.
Wind tangled her hair. The old chapel gates creaked on rusted hinges. A fox darted between the gravestones. The air carried a scent of burning pine and something more ancient — like dried lilies and ash.
Inside, the pews had collapsed into rot. The altar was gone. And in the
