Jacob needed money. Badly.

His truck had broken down, his landlord was threatening eviction, and the job at the lumberyard had cut his hours to part-time. When Evelyn’s letter arrived-*“Come stay the weekend. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of”*-he’d almost laughed. But desperation made him pack a bag.

The Victorian house smelled of her famous rosemary chicken, the scent curling under the door as he climbed the porch steps. Evelyn greeted him, her housedress frayed at the cuffs, but her eyes sharp as ever. “You’re thin, dear,” she clucked, pressing a warm bowl of stew into his hands. “We’ll fix that.”

Over tea, Evelyn explained: St. Mary’s Church needed a volunteer for Sunday’s altar service. “They’re short-handed, and I promised,” she said, stirring her cup with a spoon that clinked too loudly. “But my knees… You’ll go in my place, won’t you?”

Jacob hesitated. He hadn’t stepped into a church since his mother’s funeral. But Evelyn’s eyes-pale blue, flecked with gold-locked onto his. “You agreed, remember?”

He didn’t. But the words Sure spilled from his lips anyway.

Her smile tightened. “You can’t go like that.” She gestured at his hoodie and jeans. “People will talk. Wear something… proper.”

“Proper?”

“My Sunday best. It’s in the attic.”

The attic stairs groaned underfoot. Dust motes swirled in the jaundiced light of a bare bulb. Evelyn pointed to an antique cedar chest. Inside lay a single folded outfit: a peach-colored dress, stockings, a wig in a bun, orthopedic pumps, and a lace-trimmed head covering. A small makeup kit sat nestled beside them, blush and eyeshadow caked with age. “Try it on,” she said. “Just to see.”

Jacob laughed nervously. “Grandma, I’m not-”