The church was empty, save for the creak of old wood and the faint hum of air conditioning that never quite reached the back pews. The stained-glass windows bled soft colors into the quiet—Mary in blue, Jesus in red, and Eddie Diaz sitting stiffly in the third row like he was about to be scolded by God Himself.

Eddie didn’t cry. Not here. Not in this place. He’d already done that—in the shower, in his car, at the funeral that left the 118… shattered. Grief had carved him hollow, left all the jagged edges behind. He’d moved to Texas to fix something. Now he was back in LA, burying the man who’d once told him how to stay.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said beside him.

He startled—only slightly, but enough to feel foolish. A woman stood a few feet away, dressed in black, calm as sunrise.

And that’s when the thought hit him like a hymn book to the face: Oh no. She’s a nun.

Because why not? His last ex had almost taken the vows and made him feel guilty every time he exhaled too hard.

As if reading his mind she shakes her head.

“Therapist. I specialize in religious trauma, grief, and the kind of shame that sits in your bones for so long, you forget you’re allowed to put it down. I knew Bobby… not all too well, but,”

She sits keeping a good distance between them.

“I know he was a good man.”

Eddie almost scoffs.

Her words seem insufficient, technically true but not nearly good enough.

“A good man.”

Eddie repeats almost bitterly.

She doesn’t argue. Just watches the colors play across his face and says, almost absently:

“It’s always the ones who made you feel safe that hurt the most when they go.”

His jaw tightens. She sees it, doesn’t press.

Instead, she reaches into her bag, pulls out a simple cream-colored card, and places it gently on the pew beside him.

“When you’re ready to exhale,” she says softly.

Then she stands, offers him a small, knowing nod, and walks away—quiet as a prayer.