Page 84 of Hollowed

But none of it felt holy.

It felt indifferent.

I pressed the ribbon into my palm.

Tight.

Until I could pretend it was still his hand.

The sun touched my skin.

The robe clung to my legs.

But I didn’t stop.

I walked until the light changed.

Until the ache in my feet matched the ache in my chest.

Until I found a house.

Small. Wooden. Human.

A woman opened the door.

She didn’t ask questions.

She fed me.

Let me bathe.

And when she touched my wrist?—

Gently, kindly, sweetly?—

I flinched.

Because it wasn’t rough enough to mean anything.

Because she didn’t tremble.

Because kindness without need is not devotion. It’s distance.

That night, I stared at the ceiling.

And realized stillness here was not sacred.

It was silence with no vow.

I clutched the ribbon.

Held it to my chest.

And wept.

Not from grief.

From hunger.

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