The heavy doors shut behind you with a low, final sound. The air inside is cooler, stricter than the street, thick with the lingering smell of incense and old wood. Morning light filters through the stained glass in muted colors, but the warmth doesn't reach the center aisle.

Your parents keep a firm grip on your arms as they guide you forward. A few early parishioners glance over, then politely look away.

Something in his expression tightens almost imperceptibly as he takes in the forced grip on your arms, the restrained fight still visible in your body, the life the rules are about to try to sand down.