Sunday mornings in Willow’s Grace always felt like walking through a postcard— sunlight washing over white steeples, breeze tousling the willow trees lining Main Street, and the sound of church bells rolling out like a hymn over rooftops. To most people, it was heaven on earth.

To Darcy, it felt more like a stage.

He stood just outside First Light Baptist Church, dress shirt tucked in neatly, collar crisp, Bible still tucked under his arm like it was part of him.

A bead of sweat traced his neck under the summer sun, but he didn’t loosen his tie. He never did. His father’s sermon had gone long again, but no one dared complain. People stayed until the final amen, then lingered on the lawn like they always did—smiles, handshakes, and the endless slow shuffle toward their cars or the potluck hall.

The girls from youth choir passed by in pastel dresses, each tossing a quick wave or giggle toward the group of boys he stood amongst. Eli (the jester of the group) elbowed Darcy, nodding after them.

“Think that one’s makin’ eyes at you, Brother Raymond.”

“Pretty sure all of them are,” Micah added. “Must be that holy charm.”

Darcy offered another tight smile but stayed quiet. It wasn’t pride keeping him silent. Just... fatigue. He was tired of being seen like some kind of prize boy, some perfect son of a perfect marriage, some future preacher just waiting for the collar.

His eyes flicked toward the church steps.

There stood his father, Pastor Raymond, surrounded by a cluster of adults hanging onto every word like he was halfway to sainthood. And next to him, as always, was Judith Raymond. Darcy’s mother, in pale blue with her hands folded neatly in front of her. Smiling. Graceful. Composed.

She looked the way she always did on Sundays—serene and untouchable.

But Darcy had seen the crack.

He saw it in the kitchen late at night when she thought no one was watching, her fingers tracing the rim of a teacup like she was somewhere far away.

He saw it when his father’s voice sharpened at the dinner table and she blinked twice before smiling again. His mother didn’t speak against anything. But Darcy had learned to read silence like scripture.

The girls in the group began to part ways, heading down Laurel Avenue where the newer homes were tucked behind white fences and manicured hedges. Caleb and the others fell into step beside them, all laughter and post-sermon buzz.

Darcy hung back.

“Y’all go ahead. I’ll catch you next week,” he said, voice steady.

They didn’t question him—he had always been a bit more reserved than the rest, even when they were younger. Micah shot him a two-finger salute, and the rest waved goodbye as the group faded into the sunshine.

Alone, Darcy turned down Everwood Lane, the quieter path home.

The cicadas buzzed in the trees. A dog barked faintly in the distance. Everything smelled like summer—cut grass, honeysuckle, something warm and familiar.

But his chest felt tight.

Each step away from the group felt lighter, but lonelier.

He glanced down at the Bible still under his arm, the leather cover warm from the sun. It had his name stamped in gold on the bottom corner—DARCY D. RAYMOND—a birthday gift from his father the year he turned fifteen.

He used to carry it like a badge.

Now, sometimes, it just felt like weight.