P A T A E O R PATER NOSTER O O S A T E R
I traced my dusty fingers across the letters. PATER NOSTER. They formed the Cross at the “n,” just as I had planned. It had taken me the better part of an afternoon, carving away at the brick with father’s broken chisel, but it was done. No one may notice it unless they were looking closely at the bottom bricks of our hallway. But I would know it was there — a secret message between me and my maker — and that was all that mattered. Father had baptized me in his faith in the river with my older brothers, to the dismay of my mother. Her family had fled from the Persians years ago and had foregone baptizing in the open. Yet, that was before our house was built, before the fortification of our town, and before the hallways were extended. Now everything is hidden within.