There’s a bag under his bed. Inside it, ten crosses. But only six names.

Ron walks the pier every morning, pretending he’s normal.

 That the silence in his head is his own.

 That the voice in the mirror hasn’t spoken in months.

But memory is a slippery thing.

 And sin—real sin—never fades. It fossilizes.

He calls the voice Danny Boy.

 Danny remembers every Mary. The girls with long legs and loud laughs. The ones who didn’t see him coming.

 The ones who did.

There’s a ritual in remembering. In keeping a crucifix for each of them. He tells himself they’re sacred. That it’s penance.

 But the line between guilt and reverence is growing thin.

Now there’s a new Mary. And Danny’s voice is rising again—poised between liturgy and laughter.