Like a mirage an old Pontiac slowly lurches forward, unsure if I too am a mirage in this booth.  The Pontiac comes to a halt.  The driver’s a woman, late thirties maybe. Sunglasses, lipstick, funeral-black dress. She rolls down the window and stares straight ahead. She doesn't speak.

I slide open the panel.

“Arm.”

She doesn’t argue. Just shifts in her seat as if rethinking every decision that led her here and slowly stretches out her arm through the window like it’s a toll ticket.

The Diviner hums. One drop of blood, and it begins.

Because what do you say after three years of writing about purity in a world that mocks it? What do you say after praying through the lives of thirty souls who bled, burned, wept, and waited—just to remain faithful?

You say thank you.

The last scene is written. The final cue is marked.
The Cross has been lifted—and I am undone.