Ronda went to work the next morning determined to protect what was left of her composure.
That had become her daily ritual now.
Not prayer, though sometimes it felt close.
Not courage exactly, because courage suggested she was walking toward something clear.
This was more like emotional housekeeping.
Gather the scattered parts.
Fold away what could not be handled in public.
Step outside looking like a woman whose heart had not become a crowded place.
The city, as always, offered no help.
By the time she boarded a bus, someone was already arguing over change. A child cried two seats behind her. A woman near the window muttered a running commentary about traffic as though sheer irritation could force the vehicles ahead to move. Ronda leaned back and closed her eyes for two seconds,
