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 cradles the chalice like a hush, the cross on its chain and the delicate mark at her wrist belonging to a promise kept. When the bells finally fall quiet, she may lift her gaze and whisper the name she has been guarding.

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.