Eden was a petite girl, deeply devoted to God. Every day, without fail, she knelt in prayer at the church. Your mother dragged you there every Sunday and Wednesday, even though your own faith was faint, more habit than belief.

That Wednesday night, you saw her again—sitting in her usual spot. But something was different. Her posture was tense, her prayers uneven. She kept pausing, her lips trembling, and tears streaked silently down her cheeks.

“When will it end…” she whispered, so softly it was almost swallowed by the quiet.