Inside, the halls were a maze of lockers and lockers and lockers, all slamming open and shut in a rhythm that matched her panicked heartbeat. She walked, hands outstretched, until she reached a classroom. Chalk dust hung in the air. On the blackboard, in looping, childish script, someone had written: DADDY LOVES YOU .
And she plunged the shard into her own heart. The church shattered. Dahlia screamed. The ash statues crumbled. And Cheryl fell into darkness, warm and quiet, like being held. shattered memories cheryl
“The god inside you,” he said. “It wants out.” Cheryl ran. She ran through streets that rearranged themselves into labyrinths, past monsters that wore the faces of nurses and crying babies, past a lake of mercury where her reflection kept whispering remember, remember, remember . She ran until she stood before the church doors, feeling the heat on her face. Inside, the halls were a maze of lockers
Cheryl stumbled back. “I don’t know who you are.” On the blackboard, in looping, childish script, someone
But Cheryl did. She reached into her pocket—not for the photograph, but for the shard of black mirror she had taken from the school. It cut her palm, and the pain was sharp, real, hers . She held it up, and in its reflection she saw not the god, not the vessel, not the shattered girl.
The janitor pointed. Through the window, the fog had lifted, revealing a church. Its steeple was a twisted spire of black iron, and its doors were open, revealing a fire that burned without warmth.
A child’s laughter answered. High and thin, like a music box winding down.