At some point—I didn’t know when because time felt shredded—I found a man and woman parked on an old dirt path with a bed full of sheep.Their faces softened the moment they saw me.
The woman climbed down first.
“Come,” she said gently.
I didn’t argue.I didn’t have strength left for that pride.
I climbed into the back, settling among warm wool and curious animal eyes.The sheep stared at me like they sensed something bruised beneath my skin, nudging my legs with soft noses as though offering comfort.
And that was when I understood what rock bottom was.
It wasn’t hunger.It wasn’t bruises or running or the terror lodged in your ribs.It was sitting in the back of a stranger’s truck between livestock, praying the universe didn’t decide you’d outlived your usefulness.
The couple drove for what felt like hours, over bumpy roads and down dusty turns, a sky slowly bleeding from daylight to dusk.The valley eventually appeared below, golden under the fading sun.
When the truck finally stopped, the woman helped me down, squeezing my arm like she was trying to anchor me to the world.
“Be safe,” she whispered, and I bit down on a sob.
I thanked them until my voice cracked.Then they disappeared down the road, dust rising behind them like a parting veil.
I stood alone at the edge of the valley and looked down at the convent.My last refuge.My graveyard of childhood innocence.
Its pale stone walls rose through the cypress trees, draped in ivy, ancient and still.A place built to hold the many broken things that walked through its doors.
The bell tolled once—low, resonant, mournful.It was a warning as much as it was a welcome or a lament.
Like it knew.Like it felt the weight of what I carried—grief heavy enough to drown in.It recognized my return not as hope… but as surrender.I had gone out into the world, and I had failed.
I swallowed hard.And I walked toward the only place left where I could fall apart in peace.
The convent gatesblurred in and out of focus as I approached, my body swaying like it wasn’t entirely attached to me anymore.My legs ached.My feet bled.My lips were cracked and raw from wind and prayers whispered into empty air.
I reached the heavy wooden door and raised my hand to knock, but the world tilted sideways.My vision washed white around the edges.The air felt too thin.My fingers trembled against the wood.
The door opened before I touched it.
Sister Ana stood framed in the doorway like a miracle I hadn’t dared hope for.Her face—normally stern, collected—fractured the moment she saw me.
“Neve?”
I tried to answer, but my voice broke on nothing.Her hands were on my shoulders instantly, warm and solid and trembling all at once.
“My God, child… what happened to you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.Her arm looped around my waist, guiding me inside as my knees threatened to give way.The cool stone floor felt too far beneath my feet, as if I were floating, drifting, falling.
The last thing I remembered clearly was the warmth of her hand cupping my cheek.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered.
And I collapsed.My body folded in on itself, breath hitching, sobbing before I could stop it.Not the quiet tears I’d been holding back for days—this was wailing grief, an animal sound dragged from somewhere deep and raw.
Sister Ana knelt beside me, her arms around my shaking frame.
“Hush, child.You’re home.You’re safe.”
But I wasn’t safe.Safety died the moment Atlas disappeared from my world.