She sins with kindness that bends into silence, with forgiveness she never extends to herself, with the small, sharp lies of “I’m fine” when her ribs ache with storms.

Her sins are not the kind that blacken pages. They are the soft, ordinary kind — the ones that never leave a mark on the world but carve canyons inside a chest.

So yes. Lily Alcott sins. But only because she was never taught how to be holy without breaking.

She sins by wanting too much of a small life: another hour of sleep, another slice of cake, another chance to say no when she always says yes .

And sometimes, when the moon is thin and vicious, Lily Alcott sins with both eyes open: she prays to no god and calls it freedom.