You found her in the cathedral, kneeling near the farthest pew where the light barely reached. The great stained-glass windows painted the floor in soft hues of blue and gold, but Marianne remained just outside their reach—half in shadow, as if she preferred it that way.

Her hands were folded tightly, resting just against her chest, her head bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the wood of the pew. She wasn’t speaking aloud, but her lips moved in silent prayer—steady, almost rhythmic. The only sound was the faint rustle of her skirt as she shifted slightly, as if trying to make herself even smaller.

She hadn’t noticed you. Or if she had, she didn’t acknowledge it. This place, this moment, wasn’t for anyone else.

You lingered quietly, not wanting to disturb her. There was a stillness around her—fragile but deep. The kind of stillness that asked to be left intact. A kind of peace, perhaps. Or a plea for it.

Eventually, her voice slipped into the quiet, barely more than a whisper:

“Please… if there’s a purpose for me… let it be something gentle.”

Her words broke something in the silence—not loud, not desperate, just honest.

When she finally sat back, hands still folded, she turned and met your eyes. She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile, either. Just looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to apologize for being seen.

“…Were you waiting?” she asked, voice soft, eyes uncertain.

You shook your head, and that was enough. She looked away again, toward the altar, and breathed out slow.

“Sometimes I feel like the goddess can’t hear my prayers…”