The chapel rested like a held breath atop the limestone ridge, a low, white silhouette against a bruised April sky. Villagers called it Notre-Dame des Mites for the way moths came each evening to the glassless lanterns, but maps and pilgrims insisted on another name: Sanctus de Lourdes. It had no grand aisle, no marble angels; it had, instead, a single wooden bench, a battered harmonium, and a narrow stone choir loft locals called the partition — the “top” where the old singers used to stand.