Maren arrived at the church basement on a Tuesday night in early spring, when the air still smelled like rain and the world felt too sharp against her skin. She stood outside for a long period of time, pretending to check her phone, pretending she wasn't debating whether to run.
The door was propped open with a chipped ceramic frog. A small, ridiculous guardian. She stepped inside.
The room was warm, lit by soft yellow bulbs that hummed like bees. Folding chairs formed a loose circle, and women drifted in with paper cups of coffee, greeting each other with the kind of tenderness that made Maren's throat tighten.
She chose the last chair in the row. She crossed her arms. She hoped no one would see the tremor in her hands.
But women notice things. Especially women who have shaken like that before.
A woman made with silver braids and ocean-blue eyes sat beside her. Sonia. She carried herself like someone who had survived storms and learned to walk with the wind instead of against it.
"You made it in the door," Sonia murmured, her voice low and steady. "That's the hardest part."
Maren didn't answer. but she didn't leave.
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