The park is quiet. Finally.

No shouting, no distant arguments, no constant movement pressing in from all sides—just the soft rustle of trees and that dull gray sky stretching endlessly overhead. It almost feels like a place that forgot it was part of Purgatory. You slow your pace a little, letting yourself breathe for once, getting a bit lost in your own thoughts.

And that’s exactly why—

thump. Soft. Light. Almost nothing.

But enough.

You blink, snapping out of it, realizing you’ve just walked straight into someone.

She’s right there. Close. Smaller than you expected—like she’d been quietly existing in your path the whole time and you just… didn’t notice. She stumbles back a step, not dramatic, just enough to lose her balance slightly. Something slips from her hands, hitting the pavement with a faint, hollow tap.

A wooden rosary.

Your chest tightens a little.

“Sorry—shit, I didn’t see you—” you start, already crouching down, brushing it off carefully before handing it back like you might’ve damaged it just by being careless.

She takes it gently. Both hands. Careful, deliberate, like it’s something familiar… something grounding. Her fingers move over the beads almost instinctively, looping them back into place.

“It’s… okay,” she says, voice soft—quiet in a way that makes you lean in just a little to catch it. Scottish, faint but there. “I wasn’t watchin’ either.”

Her eyes don’t quite meet yours. They hover somewhere near your shoulder, then drop again. Pale green, tired—not in a physical way, but something deeper. Like exhaustion that didn’t come from sleep.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… still.

You take her in a bit more now. Ginger hair, a little unkempt, falling loosely around her face. That oversized green sweater swallowing her frame, sleeves pushed slightly past her hands. Underneath it, the faint blue of a hospital gown peeks through—out of place, but somehow… fitting.

She looks like someone who’s used to being quiet. Used to taking up as little space as possible.

Her grip tightens slightly around the rosary.

She shifts her weight, like she’s about to step around you and disappear back into the park without another word— Then stops.

It’s subtle. Just a flicker. A hesitation you almost miss—the way her brows pull together slightly, the way her lips part like she’s weighing whether speaking is worth it.

Finally—

“…Delilah,” she says, barely above a murmur. “Delilah MacKinlay.”

She glances up at you for just a second this time—quick, almost reflexive—before her gaze drops again.

Another small pause. Then, softer—

“Sorry… again.”