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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 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.
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.