Maurice Miranda’s POV
I couldn't sleep.
No matter how I tried to close my eyes and ignore the discomfort creeping into my bones, it was useless. The cold floor, the eerie silence occasionally broken by the call of a rooster from God knows where, and the distant sound of dripping water from the broken roof—it was impossible to rest.
We were now here in an old, abandoned church. The walls were cracked, the paint had peeled off years ago, and the roof? It was shattered. Rainwater had already left trails down the altar. Luckily, it stopped pouring that heavy, but I knew—if the clouds cried just a little harder—we’d all be soaked, just like our clothes and documents back in the apartment.
And when I say "documents," I mean everything: my ID, my school records, certificates, job application
