Steve sat at the desk in his hotel room, clicking through the photographs on his ptop. The SD card had uploaded without issues—shots of the town square, the bakery, a few residential streets, the library. Standard architectural documentation. His editor wanted a full survey of the town's older buildings for the heritage project, and Steve had most of what he needed.

  He paused on an image of the library. Hansel had been kind about letting him take photos. Hansel had been kind about everything at lunch, actually. Patient while Steve expined about being out, about Wendell, about the retionship with his brothers. About finally living honestly.

  Hansel had smiled and said he was gd Steve found happiness.

  Steve still wasn't sure Hansel had meant it. Not that Hansel was lying—more that he'd looked tired. Strained. Like Steve being with someone else was harder to hear than Steve being gay.

  *Should I reach out again before I leave?* Steve wondered. *Or wait and see if he contacts me?*

  Hansel probably wouldn't. Hansel was still deep in his faith, still careful. If Steve wanted any kind of friendship, he'd probably have to initiate it himself.

  He'd figure that out ter.

  Steve opened the folder with the church photographs and clicked on the first image.

  The Church of the Moon's Mercy filled the frame—stone walls weathered smooth, narrow windows with colored gss, the crescent moon symbol mounted above the entrance. He'd spent years in that building, praying to the goddess for guidance, for some way to be the person everyone expected.

  He studied the composition, checking the exposure and framing.

  Then he frowned.

  Behind the church, in the sky where clouds should be, there was a pattern. Lines crossing in a precise grid. And at the intersections—numbers.

  Ones and zeros.

  Steve leaned closer to the screen.

  The numbers were crisp and clear, like they'd been stamped into the air. The grid stretched across the entire background, perfectly geometric, perfectly organized.

  *What is that?*

  He pulled up the next photo. Different angle, shot from the side.

  The grid was still there.

  Third photo, from across the street.

  Grid. Ones and zeros.

  Fourth photo, through the trees.

  Same thing.

  Steve sat back, pulse quickening.

  This wasn't a lens fre. Wasn't sensor dust or file corruption. He knew his equipment well enough to recognize those problems. The grid wasn't a fw *on* the image—it was *in* the image, part of the background itself.

  He clicked through the other photographs. Library—normal. Town square—normal. Residential streets—normal.

  Only the church had the grid.

  Steve grabbed his camera and scrolled through the raw images on its dispy screen. Maybe it was a ptop rendering issue.

  No.

  The grid was there on the camera too. Undeniable.

  He set the camera down and stared at the ptop screen.

  The pattern looked familiar somehow. Like something he'd seen before but couldn't quite pce. It sat at the edge of his memory, nagging at him.

  Steve zoomed in on a section of the photograph. The ones and zeros were perfectly formed, arranged in precise rows and columns. They looked deliberate. Intentional.

  The Church of the Moon's Mercy. Where Brother Aldric preached about devotion building in measurable stages, about faith that could be tracked and recorded. About the goddess's divine order maintaining the world's bance.

  Steve had always assumed that was metaphor. Religious nguage.

  But this grid, these numbers—they looked like something was actually being *measured*.

  His phone buzzed on the desk.

  Steve picked it up. A text from Wendell: *How's the hometown pilgrimage?*

  Steve smiled slightly and typed back: *Good. Got most of the shots I need.*

  Three dots appeared. Then: *Miss you. Guess I'll have to make do with your brothers until you get back.*

  Heat crept up Steve's neck. He could practically hear Wendell's voice—casual, amused, with that edge that always made Steve's stomach flip.

  *Yeah,* Steve typed, then deleted it. Too simple. *I miss you too,* he tried instead.

  The response came quickly: *Miss having your sweet mouth sucking my Dick.*

  Steve's face burned. He gnced at the hotel room door as if someone might walk in, even though he was alone. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard.

  *Soon,* he finally managed. *I'll be back in a few days to take care of my wolf.*

  *Good. I've got pns for you.*

  Steve set the phone down, face still warm, and took a breath. Wendell always knew exactly how to get under his skin—how to make him flustered with just a few words.

  He looked back at the ptop, trying to refocus.

  The church photograph stared back at him. The grid. The ones and zeros.

  *I should go back tomorrow,* Steve thought. *Take more pictures. See if it happens again.*

  Steve saved the files and leaned back in his chair.

  Tomorrow he'd go back to the church. He'd figure out what was causing this—some atmospheric thing, some trick of light, *something* expinable.

  And maybe he'd stop by the library. Not to push Hansel, just to leave the door open. In case Hansel wanted to talk.

  But for now, Steve just sat with the strangeness of it all. Coming home. Coming out. And discovering that the church he'd spent years dedicated to might be experiencing something he didn't understand.