The days following Father Alonzo's arrival bled into each other, warm and slow, like honey dripping from a broken jar.
At first, nothing seemed to change. The crops still needed tending. The goats still needed chasing.
The children still tore through the dusty roads like wild things.
But there was an... undercurrent now. A stirring.
The chapel, once nearly empty during morning prayers, began to fill.
The fields, once burdened with muttered complaints, now rang with talk of hope.
Maria noticed it in small ways. In the way her mother sang while hanging the wash. In the way the old men lingered longer at the well, speaking in low, animated voices.
In the way she caught herself smiling for no reason.
She told herself it was foolishness.
She had no time for foolishness.
The first encounter came at the well.
Maria was hauling up a bucket, arms straining, when the rope slipped through her fingers.
The heavy bucket plunged back into the water with a splash, jerking the whole contraption hard enough to snap the brittle wood.
She cursed under her breath, glancing around to make sure no one heard.
But someone had.
Father Alonzo was standing a short distance away, his arms full of firewood.
He had shed his outer robe, revealing a plain tunic underneath, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He looked... different without the heavy robes. Younger. Sharper.
He set down the firewood carefully and approached.
"Allow me," he said, voice low and even.
Before she could protest, he knelt at the well, inspecting the broken mechanism with a practiced eye.
Maria watched, frozen, as he removed his sash and used it to create a makeshift brace around the pulley.
"There," he said after a moment, offering the rope to her with an encouraging smile.
"Try again."
She flushed, embarrassed to have been so clumsy—and even more embarrassed by the way her fingers brushed against his as she took the rope.
The bucket came up smoothly this time.
Maria ducked her head in thanks, but Father Alonzo was already gathering his firewood again, moving away without expecting anything more.
He had helped without patronizing.
He had left without lingering.
It unsettled her more than if he had flirted.
The second encounter came a few days later at the chapel.
Father Alonzo had organized a small group to repair the leaking roof. Maria's brothers had gone, grumbling about the heat, and Maria, curious despite herself, had drifted to the edge of the clearing to watch.
Alonzo moved among the workers, sleeves pushed up, a hammer in hand. He worked as hard as any farmer, sweat darkening the back of his tunic.
When someone struggled with the beams, he didn't scold. He demonstrated, patient and clear, using slow, careful words.
Maria found herself studying the way he spoke, the way he listened.
How he never raised his voice.
How he never made himself small, yet never made others feel small either.
It was... rare.
Rare enough to be dangerous.
She told herself she was simply grateful. She told herself she was simply curious.
But when he laughed—low and rich and real—something deep inside her stirred again.
The third encounter came without warning.
It was twilight.
Maria was hurrying home with an armful of herbs when a sudden summer rain broke overhead. She darted under the eaves of the chapel, heart pounding, water dripping from her hair and skirts.
And there, in the dim light of the doorway, stood Father Alonzo. He had been lighting candles at the altar, preparing for evening prayers.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the rain thundering around them. Then he smiled, slow and easy, and said, "Even the heavens must sometimes weep."
Maria laughed, breathless, wiping rain from her face.
It was a foolish thing to say. But it made the fear in her chest loosen.
He crossed the room, retrieving a rough woven shawl from a peg on the wall. Without a word, he draped it over her shoulders.
The gesture was careful. Respectful.
Yet Maria felt the warmth of it sear through her skin.
"Thank you, Padre," she whispered.
He only nodded, stepping back to give her space.
For a moment, Maria wanted to say something more.
Something real.
Something dangerous.
But the rain eased, and her courage fled with it.
She fled too, heart hammering, clutching the damp shawl tight around her.
That night, as she lay in her narrow bed, Maria stared at the low wooden ceiling, listening to the frogs sing in the flooded fields.
She told herself it was nothing.
A kindness here.
A smile there.
A man doing his duty.
A girl reading too much into it.
Yet when she closed her eyes, she dreamed of brown eyes and a voice like warm earth.
And she knew, deep down, that something had begun to shift.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Inevitably.