It was a quiet morning stroll through Dordrecht when we wandered into the Grote Kerk, which translates, rather humbly, as the Big Church. Its full name is De Grote of Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk, a majestic Gothic structure, not unlike the Black Church in Brașov, and about the same age too. Inside, the atmosphere was serene, almost sacred, wrapping around us like a warm hush.

We found a bench and sat down, the kind of sit-down where you’re not really tired, but your thoughts are. Sitting beside me was Miss J., unusually still and solemn. Yes, my whirlwind of a daughter—eternally full of questions—was suddenly peaceful. I looked at her sideways, amused and slightly suspicious of the calm. She glanced up at me with her curious, always-seeking eyes and whispered:
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