The days that followed blurred into a quiet haze. Maria moved through her chores like a ghost, her hands working by habit alone, her mind elsewhere.
It was as though the world had shifted on its axis. Every step she took, every corner she turned, she half-expected — half-hoped — to see him.
Father Alonzo.
The very name made her heart tremble.
Maria told herself it was foolish. He was a man of the cloth, a servant of God. His kindness was not meant for her alone. It was in his nature to be gentle, to listen, to smile.
And yet...
A part of her clung to the memory of that afternoon beneath the wide sky, of the way he had looked at her — not as a passing figure in the street, but as someone worth seeing.
A week later, Maria found herself in the church again, not for mass, but because her mother had sent her to deliver fresh flowers for the altar.
It was a quiet afternoon. Most of the townsfolk were still in the fields or busy preparing for the coming harvest festival.
Inside the stone walls of San Alejo's church, the air was cool and heavy with incense.
Maria placed the basket down near the altar, her hands lingering over the white blooms. She arranged them carefully, smoothing each petal, letting the sweet scent fill her lungs.
She barely noticed the soft footsteps approaching.
"You have a gift for beauty."
Maria whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat.
Father Alonzo stood a few paces behind her, hands folded calmly behind his back, his expression unreadable. Light from the high windows framed him in soft gold, giving him an almost ethereal appearance.
"I— I was only arranging the flowers, Father," Maria stammered, quickly dipping into a curtsy.
"No need to be so formal," he said gently, stepping closer. "This is your church as much as mine."
Maria bowed her head, flustered.
There was a long, quiet pause.
"I often find peace here," Alonzo said, his voice low and thoughtful. "Away from the noise of the world. The burdens of men."
Maria risked a glance at him. He seemed distant, almost sorrowful, as though weighed down by some unseen burden.
"You carry heavy burdens, Father?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes.
"All men carry burdens, Maria. Some heavier than others."
Another silence. A kind of understanding passed between them — delicate, tentative, like a thread drawn tight.
"You have a kind heart," Maria said quietly.
Alonzo looked at her then — truly looked — and Maria felt as though the very breath was stolen from her lungs.
"There are days," he said softly, "when I wonder if kindness is enough."
He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against a fallen flower petal on the stone floor between them.
Maria's hands trembled slightly as she knelt to help him gather the rest.
Their fingers touched — just briefly — but the spark was undeniable. A jolt, a ripple through the very air.
Alonzo withdrew first, rising to his feet, his face once again calm and composed.
"You do not have to rush away," he said, noticing her half-rise. "I welcome your company, Maria."
She sank back down, heart thudding wildly.
They spoke for a time, of small things — of the coming festival, of the weather, of the harvest — and yet every word felt heavy with meaning.
Maria listened, enraptured, as he spoke. His voice was steady, patient, thoughtful. He spoke with the kind of certainty that came from deep conviction, yet there was no arrogance in him. No harshness.
When he asked her opinion — about the simplest things, even — it made her feel seen, valued, important.
Time slipped past unnoticed.
Only when the bells tolled the hour did Maria startle.
"I should go," she said, rising hastily.
"Of course," Alonzo said, offering a slight bow. "Thank you, Maria. For the flowers... and for the conversation."
She curtsied again, clutching the empty basket to her chest, and fled down the aisle, feeling his gaze on her back the whole way.
Outside, the late afternoon sun was sinking toward the mountains, casting long, honeyed shadows across the fields.
Maria hurried home, her heart a frantic, fluttering thing.
Was it wrong to feel this way? Was she committing some terrible sin by daring to hope?
She did not know.
All she knew was that in Father Alonzo's eyes, she had seen something that called to her — something that made her feel less like a girl meant only to marry and bear children and live out her days in quiet obedience.
In his eyes, Maria glimpsed a different future.
One where she mattered.
That night, Maria lay awake in her little bed, staring at the ceiling.
She thought of his voice, his smile, the way he had looked at her as though she were not just another face in the crowd.
She thought of the life she had always expected to live — safe, simple, small.
And she thought of the life that might be waiting beyond the edge of what she knew, if only she dared to reach for it.
Somewhere deep inside her, a seed of dangerous longing took root.
It would not be long before it bloomed.