Sophia
I didn’t get far.
Not really.
I told myself I was leaving, but I ended up in the hospital chapel, sitting on a bench that creaked every time I breathed too hard. The room was quiet in a way that hurt—too clean, too hollow, too full of ghosts I didn’t know how to pray to.
I turned to my side and noticed a woman crying quietly a few seats down. She was rocking slightly, clutching something in her hands. I caught bits and pieces—something about her daughter, a prayer, maybe a name—but I didn’t really pay attention.
My mind was too full. My chest is too heavy.
There was a cross on the wall, below it were flickering candles and one of those little boxes where people wrote prayers on slips of paper and stuffed them in like wishes. I didn’t write anything. I wouldn’t even know where
