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Between the stitched cross at the edge and her blackened nails, she lights a fleeting truce. The daisies on her hood know whom she promised; perhaps the next curl of smoke will bring the sign.
She presses her lips to the heavy, ruby‑set cross as if testing an old vow. A thin nose hoop and blackened nails betray where she came from before vespers; perhaps the chain knows the name she keeps.
On nights when the signal dies, she still types the same reply; pearls stand in for witnesses and the cross hangs heavy like an old vow. Maybe the message isn’t sent from the phone but from the place where she holds her breath before saying amen.