I never needed much to be happy. A roof that didn't leak, food in the fridge, and my children's laughter. That's what I told myself on the hardest days, when the bills piled up and my back ached from the double shifts at the hospital. Just the basics and my babies—that's all I needed in this world.

  But now, I'm not sure what kind of world this is anymore.

  "Mama, look! The sky is doing the weird thing again!"

  Oliver pressed his little face against our apartment window, breath fogging the glass. At eight years old, he found wonder in everything. Even in these... disturbances that had been happening lately.

  "Come away from the window, baby," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maggie needs help with her homework."

  My daughter, two years older than her brother and already too serious for her age, sat at our scratched kitchen table, math worksheets spread before her. She didn't look up. Hadn't looked up much this past week, not since the first tremors shook Brooklyn and the news started showing those strange lights in the sky.

  "But Mama, it's all purple and swirly today! Yesterday it was just the blue lights."

  I set down the pot I'd been scrubbing and dried my hands on my uniform pants. Third day wearing them this week—laundry would have to wait until payday.

  Outside our window, beyond the fire escape and the brick walls of the adjacent building, patches of sky seemed to ripple. Shimmering purple distortions that scientists on TV called "atmospheric anomalies" and street preachers called "the opening gates of judgment."

  "It's pretty," I admitted, resting my hand on Oliver's shoulder. "But remember what Pastor Michael said? Sometimes God sends us signs we don't understand, and our job isn't to worry but to trust."

  "And pray," Oliver added solemnly.

  "That's right, baby. And pray."

  I didn't tell him how I'd been praying until my knees ached these past few nights, long after the children fell asleep. Praying for protection, for understanding, for the world to make sense again.

  The TV murmured in the background—I kept it on low these days, watching for emergency alerts while trying to shield the children from the worst of the reports. Strange phenomena worldwide. Increased seismic activity. Unprecedented weather patterns. And those zones... those strange bubbles of distorted reality where people were reportedly playing some kind of games.

  Games that sometimes left participants dead.

  "Mama?" Maggie finally looked up from her homework. "Is Mrs. Rodriguez okay? I heard sirens at her building this morning."

  My heart sank. Mrs. Rodriguez had lived down the hall for twenty years, had watched my children when I worked night shifts, slipping them homemade empanadas and teaching them Spanish lullabies.

  "She's... resting at the hospital, sweetheart. Remember how she sometimes gets confused?"

  What I didn't say: how she'd wandered into one of those zones that had appeared on Atlantic Avenue three days ago. How she'd emerged disoriented, speaking of "death points" and "oversouls," eyes wild with something between terror and ecstasy. How she'd collapsed shortly after, brain activity scrambled beyond anything the doctors at my hospital had seen before.

  "Can we visit her? I made her a card." Maggie pulled a folded paper from her math book, covered in careful drawings of flowers and hearts.

  "Soon," I promised, knowing it might be a lie. "Let's finish dinner and your homework first."

  The news anchor's voice suddenly rose above its usual murmur: "—reporting widespread outages in communication systems worldwide. Authorities advise remaining calm and—"

  The TV went dark mid-sentence. The lights flickered, then stabilized.

  "Just a power surge," I said quickly, before either child could grow alarmed. "Happens all the time with old buildings."

  It didn't. Not like this. Not with the timing that seemed too perfect to be coincidence.

  I moved to the kitchen, stirring the pot of beans that would stretch into three meals with enough rice. Outside, I could hear sirens in the distance—a constant soundtrack in Brooklyn, but more frequent these past weeks. The church bell from St. Anthony's chimed six o'clock, its familiar tone somehow reassuring. At least some things remained unchanged.

  "Homework finished, dinner, then Bible time," I announced, falling back on routine to create a sense of normalcy. "Oliver, set the table please."

  As he scrambled to obey, I checked my phone. No service, as I'd expected after the TV outage. No way to check on my work schedule for tomorrow, or call my mother in the Bronx to make sure she was okay.

  Maggie looked up from her division problems, eyes too knowing for a child. "It's bad out there, isn't it, Mama? That's why you won't let us play outside anymore."

  I hesitated, torn between honesty and protection. "There are some... strange things happening that scientists are trying to understand. Until they do, we're being extra careful. That's all."

  "Tommy Wallace's big brother went into one of those bubble things," she continued. "He came back talking crazy. Said he died but didn't die." Her pencil tapped nervously against the table. "And Sophia's mom just... disappeared. Walked into one and never came out."

  My stomach clenched. I hadn't known about Sophia's mother. "When did you hear that, honey?"

  "At school yesterday. Before they sent us home early."

  "Well, that's why we stay away from those areas," I said firmly, ladling beans into our mismatched bowls. "God watches over us, but He also expects us to be smart and careful."

  Oliver climbed into his seat, knees tucked under him to reach the table properly. "Pastor Michael says it's the End Times. That's why the sky is broken. Is Jesus coming back, Mama?"

  I set his bowl in front of him, buying time with a motherly adjustment of his shirt collar. "Pastor Michael has his beliefs about what's happening. So do the scientists and the government people on TV. What matters is that we take care of each other and keep faith, no matter what's happening."

  "But what do you think, Mama?" Maggie pressed, her food untouched.

  I sank into my chair, suddenly bone-weary. "I think... I think the world has always had mysteries and always will. Right now, there are some big ones happening all at once. But God hasn't forgotten us."

  The lie tasted bitter. In my darkest moments, in the stillness of 3 AM when sleep evaded me, I wondered exactly that—if God had turned His face away from a world grown too corrupted, too violent, too self-absorbed. If these phenomena were punishment or purification or something beyond human understanding.

  "Eat while it's hot," I said instead. "And Oliver, don't forget to—"

  "Blow on it first," he finished with a gap-toothed smile. "I know, Mama."

  We ate in relative quiet, the silence broken only by the clink of spoons and the distant wail of sirens that never seemed to stop. When Oliver asked for seconds, I gave him half of mine while he wasn't looking. Growing boys needed their strength. I could manage on less.

  After dinner came our nightly ritual. I opened the worn Bible my grandmother had given me at my confirmation, its pages soft with use and time.

  "Where were we?" I asked, though I knew perfectly well.

  "Psalm 46," Maggie answered promptly. "God is our refuge and strength."

  "That's right." I smoothed the tissue-thin page and began to read: "'God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea...'"

  The familiar words washed over us, a balm for frightened hearts—mine most of all. The children nestled against me on our sagging couch, warm and solid and real amid a world grown increasingly surreal.

  "'Be still, and know that I am God,'" I finished, closing the Bible gently. "I've always loved that part. Be still. Sometimes that's the hardest thing to do when we're scared or confused."

  "I'm not scared," Oliver declared, though he hadn't let go of my sleeve since we sat down. "God's got us. And you've got us too, Mama."

  "Always," I promised, kissing the top of his head. "Now, pajamas and teeth. It's a school night."

  "If there's school," Maggie muttered, sliding off the couch.

  I pretended not to hear, unwilling to engage with the possibility. Structure was essential right now—for them and for me. If schools closed completely, as rumors suggested they might with the increasing disturbances...

  No. One day at a time. One hour at a time if necessary.

  I tucked Oliver in, his bed covered with solar system sheets that now seemed almost mocking. The stars and planets printed on his bedding bore no resemblance to the chaotic sky outside our window, and he no longer cuddled his white lion stuffie he deemed "too babyish" long ago.

  "Mama?" he asked as I smoothed his blanket. "Can we go to church tomorrow? Even if it's not Sunday?"

  "Of course we can," I said, surprising myself with the instant decision. "St. Anthony's has evening prayer. We'll go right after I get home from work."

  His face relaxed. "Good. I like it there. It feels safe."

  I kissed his forehead. "It is safe. Now sleep tight, my brave boy."

  Maggie was already in bed, her back to the door, curled around the stuffed rabbit she claimed she'd outgrown. I sat gently on the edge of her mattress.

  "All good, sweetheart?"

  She rolled over, eyes glistening in the glow of her night light. "Mama, what's happening to the world? Really?"

  The question knocked the breath from me. I wanted to protect her with platitudes, with simplified explanations that a ten-year-old could accept. But Maggie had always seen through such attempts.

  "I don't know," I admitted, brushing hair from her forehead. "Something big. Something that's never happened before, at least not in recorded history."

  "Are we going to be okay?"

  My throat tightened. "I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure we are."

  Not a yes. Not the reassurance she sought. But the most honest answer I could give.

  "I'm scared," she whispered, the admission clearly costing her.

  "Me too, sometimes," I confessed. "But being scared is okay. It just means we care about what happens. We have each other and God, right?"

  She nodded, clutching her rabbit tighter.

  "Get some sleep, my love. Things often seem clearer in the morning light."

  Another potential lie. Nothing had seemed clear for weeks now.

  After both children had drifted off, I returned to the living room, collecting forgotten homework sheets and dirty socks. Outside, the night sky flickered with unnatural colors—not just the purple distortions from earlier, but ribbons of green and gold that undulated like ghostly curtains.

  My phone suddenly chimed—service restored, at least temporarily. Notifications flooded in: three missed calls from work, a text from my mother (safe but frightened), and an emergency alert:

  STAY INDOORS BETWEEN 11 PM AND 5 AM. INCREASED ZONE ACTIVITY REPORTED. EMERGENCY SERVICES MAY BE DELAYED.

  I checked the time: 9:47 PM. We were home, safe behind our locked door. But the hospital would be expecting me for tomorrow's 7 AM shift. Unless they weren't. Unless something had changed in the hours since I'd left.

  I tried calling the nurse's station, but the line was busy. Tried my supervisor's cell—straight to voicemail.

  The uncertainty gnawed at me as I prepared for bed. Without reliable information, how could I make the right decisions? Go to work and potentially leave my children in a dangerous situation? Stay home and risk losing the job we depended on?

  As I brushed my teeth, a strange vibration ran through the building—not a tremor exactly, but a low hum that I felt more than heard. The water in the sink rippled in concentric circles.

  Something was happening. Something beyond atmospheric anomalies and communication disruptions.

  I knelt beside my bed, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles whitened.

  "God, please," I whispered, forehead pressed against my interlaced fingers. "I don't understand what's happening, but my children are frightened, and so am I. Show us Your protection. Guide us through whatever is coming. Let me be strong enough for them."

  Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by distant sirens and the strange lights that pulsed through our thin curtains. I dreamed of a vast darkness approaching, its surface covered with ancient eyes that seemed to recognize me personally.

  I woke at 5:30 AM, gritty-eyed but resolute. The children still slept, their faces peaceful in the gray dawn light. I checked my phone—service gone again, but the emergency alert remained:

  STAY INDOORS BETWEEN 11 PM AND 5 AM.

  Well, it was after 5 AM now. And I needed to know if I was expected at work, if schools were open, if the world was still functioning according to its usual rhythms.

  I dressed quickly, splashed water on my face, and wrote a note for the children: Checking on work schedule. Back VERY soon. Stay inside. Love you both.

  The hallway outside our apartment was eerily silent—no early-morning sounds of neighbors preparing for work or school. Mrs. Rodriguez's door remained closed, the colorful welcome mat now a painful reminder of her absence.

  Outside, Brooklyn was transformed. Not by destruction—the buildings stood as they always had, the streets followed their familiar paths—but by emptiness. No delivery trucks, no early commuters, no dog-walkers or joggers. Just silence and the strange quality of light filtering through clouds that seemed too low, too dense. It felt like the early days of the Covid pandemic.

  I walked quickly toward the hospital, four blocks away. The stillness made each footstep sound unnaturally loud, each breath visible in the unusually cold spring air.

  Halfway there, I saw it—a massive bubble of distorted reality covering the intersection ahead. Unlike the smaller ones I'd glimpsed from a distance, this one was enormous, at least a city block in diameter. Its surface shimmered with oily black and purple swirls, similar to the disturbing pattern I'd seen in the sky the previous evening.

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  I stopped, heart pounding. The hospital was directly beyond that intersection. To reach it, I'd need to detour several blocks east or west.

  As I stood uncertain, something moved within it—a figure walking calmly toward its edge. A man emerged from the distortion, his expression serene despite the impossibility of what had just happened.

  He noticed me and smiled. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

  I stared, unable to reconcile his normalcy with the situation. "Did you just... walk through that thing?"

  "The Coagulate Zone? Yes." He glanced back at the shimmering bubble, laughing to himself. "Scored six Death Points too. Not bad for an ORT3 run if I do say so myself."

  The terms meant nothing to me, but his casual attitude toward the phenomenon was more terrifying than the bubble itself.

  "Excuse me," I managed, backing away. "I need to get to work."

  "If you're heading to Brooklyn Methodist, don't bother," he called after me. "It's inside a Zone now. A beauuuutiful light blue, can't miss it. They're evacuating patients through the emergency protocols."

  I froze. "What?"

  "Happened overnight. The only Light Blue I've ever seen." He shrugged as if discussing an interesting weather pattern. "Good luck."

  He walked away, checking something on a device that resembled a smartphone, the screen displaying symbols I didn't recognize.

  My hospital... inside one of these things? Patients being evacuated? I needed to see for myself, to understand what was happening.

  I took the eastern detour, moving as quickly as I dared while staying alert for more zones. The streets remained eerily empty, though occasionally I spotted others hurrying along with the same hunched, frightened posture I imagined I must have.

  When I finally reached the street where the hospital stood, I stopped dead. The entire medical complex—all eight buildings—was encased in a glowing light blue dome that pulsed with gentle, rhythmic light. Unlike the menacing purple-black one I'd avoided, this one seemed almost peaceful, its surface rippling like water reflecting sunlight.

  A perimeter had been established around it—police barricades, military vehicles, personnel in hazmat suits. Ambulances were positioned at what appeared to be an exit point, receiving gurneys with patients atop them that emerged directly through the light blue barrier.

  "Ma'am, you need to stay back," a police officer called, noticing me.

  I showed my hospital ID. "I work here—third floor, pediatrics. What's happening?"

  His expression softened slightly. "The Zone appeared around 2 AM. We're still evacuating critical patients. Staff inside report everything's stable but... changed."

  "Changed how?"

  He hesitated. "Above my pay grade, ma'am. All I know is no one's been hurt, but everyone who comes out is... different somehow. Talking about revelations and hidden knowledge."

  A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the morning air.

  "My shift was supposed to start at seven," I said. "Should I...?"

  "No new personnel entering," he said firmly. "Report to the command center two blocks south for reassignment if you want to help. Otherwise, best go home until we understand what we're dealing with."

  Home. To my children, who would be waking soon to a world grown stranger by the hour.

  "Thank you," I said, already turning away.

  The journey back seemed longer, my mind racing with implications. If the hospital was inaccessible, how long before my next paycheck? How would I feed my children, pay our rent? The small emergency fund tucked inside my Bible wouldn't last more than a week, maybe two if we were extremely careful.

  As I rounded the corner to our block, something felt wrong. People had emerged from their apartments, clustering in small groups, pointing and talking in hushed voices. Many were on their knees praying. Some were simply weeping.

  I looked up at our apartment building and felt my knees go weak.

  The entire structure was vibrating, a deep rhythmic pulse that seemed to emanate from the ground itself. Windows rattled in their frames, small objects fell from balconies, and a low, bone-penetrating hum filled the air—the same strange sound I'd noticed earlier, but amplified to a terrifying degree. The concentric ripples I'd seen in the sink had become visible waves of distortion in the air itself, radiating outward from the building's foundation.

  "Mama!"

  Oliver's voice cut through my shock. I turned to see my son running toward me, still in his pajamas, face streaked with tears.

  "Oliver! What are you doing outside? Where's Maggie?" I rushed to meet him, gathering him into my arms.

  "She went to find you!" he sobbed, clutching me desperately. "We woke up and you were gone, and she said she was going to the hospital to get you because the humming got so bad everything started falling and people were screaming to evacuate!"

  The world tilted beneath me. "When, Oliver? When did she leave?"

  "Maybe ten minutes ago? I tried to stop her, Mama, I tried, but she said she had to make sure you were okay with that awful noise making everything shake and all those people running around..."

  I looked frantically up and down the street. "Which way did she go?"

  He pointed toward the main avenue—the direct route to the hospital.

  "Oliver, I need you to stay with Mrs. Patel. You see her over there? Tell her your mama needs help and stay with her. Can you do that?"

  He nodded, eyes wide with fear.

  "Go straight there. Don't stop for anyone else, don't look at anything else. Promise me!"

  "I promise, Mama." His small hand squeezed mine. "Are you getting Maggie?"

  "Yes, baby. I'm getting your sister and bringing her straight here."

  I watched until he reached Mrs. Patel, then ran toward the avenue, heart pounding in my throat. Please, God. Please let me find her before she reaches that distortion zone. Please keep her safe. Please don't take my baby.

  The streets had filled somewhat since my earlier journey. Some pointed cameras upward, others huddled in groups praying or arguing. No one seemed to notice the frantic woman pushing past them, searching for a small girl with dark braids and a red backpack.

  I reached the corner where I'd first seen it. It was still there, black and purple and wrong, warping the reality around it. A crowd had gathered at a "safe" distance, watching as occasional individuals entered or exited the phenomenon.

  And there—at the edge of the crowd—a flash of red. Maggie's backpack.

  "Maggie!" I screamed, pushing through the onlookers. "Maggie, stop!"

  She turned, her face lighting with relief when she saw me. "Mama! You're okay!"

  I was almost to her, perhaps fifteen feet away, when a commotion erupted in the crowd. People scattered, screaming about something I couldn't see. Maggie was jostled backward by the sudden movement, losing her balance on the curb, falling...

  Directly toward the edge of it.

  "NO!" I lunged forward, fingers stretching toward her outstretched hand.

  Too late. Too slow. Too weak.

  My daughter's body passed through the shimmering barrier, vanishing into whatever lay beyond.

  I crashed against the bubble's edge, expecting to follow her through, to find myself in whatever hellish reality had swallowed my child. Instead, I collided with something that felt like solid rubber, flexible but impenetrable. The surface rippled from the impact but didn't break.

  "Maggie!" I pounded against the barrier with both fists, scraped at it with my nails, threw my body against it repeatedly. Nothing. I couldn't pass through.

  "She's in one of those weird Coagulate Zones," someone said nearby. A woman with unnaturally black eyes, watching me with clinical interest. "ORT3 from the look of it. If she's not a player, her chances aren't good."

  "My daughter," I gasped, still clawing at the barrier. "Please, my daughter is in there!"

  "Nothing we can do," a man said, not unkindly. "Zones follow their own rules. They complete when the game completes, not before."

  "Or when everyone inside is dead," another added, earning angry glares from those around him.

  I sank to my knees, still pressing against the unyielding barrier. "Maggie," I sobbed. "Baby, can you hear me? It's Mama!"

  No response. Just the oily churning of its surface, occasionally transparent enough to reveal shadowy movement within but never clear enough to identify individual figures.

  Time lost meaning as I kept vigil beside the bubble. People came and went around me—some curious onlookers, others apparently waiting for friends or family who had deliberately entered. Someone draped a blanket over my shoulders. Someone else pressed a bottle of water into my hand. I acknowledged none of it, my entire being focused on the barrier and the moment when my daughter might emerge.

  The sun climbed higher, then began its slow descent.

  "Mama?" Oliver's small voice penetrated my fog of despair. "Mama, I was scared when you didn't come back."

  I turned to find Mrs. Patel holding my son's hand, her kind face creased with concern.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered, throat raw from hours of calling Maggie's name. "I couldn't... she's in there..."

  "I know," Mrs. Patel said gently. "But your boy needs you too. Come, sit properly. You'll still see when that inky blemish dissolves."

  She helped me to a nearby bench, Oliver crawling immediately into my lap despite being too big for such things. His familiar weight and smell triggered fresh tears.

  "Is Maggie coming back?" he asked in a small voice.

  I couldn't lie. Not about this. "I don't know, baby. I'm praying very hard that she will."

  "Me too," he whispered. "I told God He could have all my allowance forever if He brings her back."

  A sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. "That's a generous offer, Oliver. God will hear that for sure."

  We waited together, my boy and I, as the day waned. Mrs. Patel brought us sandwiches that I couldn't eat but insisted Oliver finish. The crowd thinned as darkness approached, mindful of the emergency alerts about nighttime ‘zone’ activity.

  "You should take him home," Mrs. Patel urged as street lights flickered on. "The humming has stopped and this is no place for a child after dark. I'll stay and watch. If anything changes, I'll call immediately."

  I knew she was right. Oliver had been through enough trauma for one day without spending the night on a street corner watching the oily bubble that had swallowed his sister.

  "We'll come back first thing in the morning," I promised him, rising on stiff legs.

  That's when the surface of the barrier began to change. Even though it had churned in the same patterns all day, it suddenly accelerated, the black and purple swirls spinning faster and faster.

  "It's completing," someone nearby said. "The game must be over."

  I clutched Oliver's hand as the rotation reached a frenzied pace, then suddenly collapsed inward with a sound like thunder. Where the massive bubble had been, a shower of golden particles briefly illuminated the twilight before fading away.

  And there, lying on the pavement where the zone had stood, were bodies. Seven of them, motionless in the gathering darkness.

  "Stay here," I ordered Oliver, rushing forward with desperate hope.

  Police and emergency personnel converged simultaneously, creating a chaotic scene of shouted orders and emergency lights. I pushed through, scanning each fallen form for a red backpack, for small hands, for dark braids.

  There—a child's shoe. A familiar sneaker with glittery laces that Maggie had begged for on her last birthday.

  "That's my daughter!" I screamed, fighting against a policeman who tried to hold me back. "Let me through! Maggie!"

  Whether from pity or surprise, he released me. I fell to my knees beside the small form, already knowing from the unnatural stillness what I would find.

  Maggie lay as if sleeping, no visible injuries marking her body. Just an expression of profound surprise frozen on her features, eyes open but seeing nothing, reflecting the strange sky above.

  "No," I moaned, gathering her into my arms. "No, no, no. Please, baby. Please wake up."

  Her body was still warm, creating the cruel illusion that life might return at any moment. That this was a faint or a seizure rather than... than...

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," a paramedic said, kneeling beside us. "There's nothing we can do. None of them survived whatever happened in there."

  I couldn't process his words. Couldn't accept the reality of my vibrant, serious, beautiful daughter lying lifeless in my arms. Just this morning she'd been sleeping soundly. Just this morning, I'd told her I’d be right back.

  Another broken promise in a world breaking apart.

  Oliver's wail cut through my shock—a sound of pure grief as Mrs. Patel tried to hold him back from the scene. But he broke free, running to us, collapsing beside his sister's body.

  "Maggie! Maggie, wake up! Please wake up!"

  Together we wailed our loss to an indifferent sky, beneath the watching eyes of whatever cosmic horror had invaded my dreams. Around us, others grieved for their own lost ones, creating a symphony of anguish that rose into the night.

  Eventually, gently, the authorities separated us from Maggie's body. Someone draped another blanket around my shoulders. Someone spoke of shock, of grief counselors, of procedures for claiming her later.

  I heard none of it, operating on pure maternal instinct as I gathered Oliver into my arms and began the long walk home. One foot before the other. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't think about the empty bed in the children's room. Don't think about the math homework still on the kitchen table. Don't think about the birthday in two months that will never come.

  Just walk. Just breathe. Just hold your living child.

  The streets were emptying as the 11 PM curfew approached.

  Mrs. Patel walked with us until we reached our building, murmuring prayers in Hindi that needed no translation—the language of grief transcends such barriers. She offered to stay, to help with practical matters I couldn't yet comprehend, but I thanked her and declined. I needed solitude for what came next. For the collapse I felt building inside me.

  Oliver was silent as we entered our apartment, his small body rigid with shock. I moved through familiar routines with mechanical precision—locking the door, turning on lights, filling a glass with water.

  "Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?" I asked him.

  He nodded mutely, eyes swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tears and grime.

  "Let's wash up first," I said, leading him to the bathroom. "Just a quick face and hands."

  He complied without protest, standing statue-still as I gently wiped his face with a warm cloth. I avoided the mirror above the sink, unable to confront my own reflection.

  In my bedroom, I helped him change into the spare pajamas he kept in my dresser for nights when thunderstorms drove him from his own bed. We huddled together beneath my comforter, the emptiness beside us an abyss neither acknowledged.

  "Mama?" His voice was a thread in the darkness. "Is Maggie with Jesus now?"

  The question shattered what remained of my composure. Tears came in a flood, unstoppable and primal. I clutched Oliver to my chest as great, heaving sobs tore through me.

  "Yes, baby," I managed between gasps. "She's with Jesus. And He's holding her just like I'm holding you."

  "Is He telling her not to be scared?"

  "Yes. And she's brave, our Maggie. She's not scared at all. She's watching over us now."

  "I miss her, Mama."

  "Me too, baby. Me too."

  We cried together until exhaustion claimed us, sleep a mercy that postponed the grief waiting to begin anew with dawn.

  In my dreams, I stood on our Brooklyn street, holding Oliver's hand, my tears falling unchecked as passersby rushed around us, unseeing.

  Then a presence beside us—a tall man, much taller than me, with a quiet strength that seemed to radiate from within. Without a word, he enfolded us both in an embrace that somehow contained both comfort and understanding beyond what seemed humanly possible.

  I leaned into his strength, allowing myself to be held for the first time since my children's father had walked away six years earlier. The man smelled of something I couldn't identify—not cologne or soap, but something elemental, like the air after a thunderstorm.

  When he finally released us, I looked up into a face that radiated compassion—olive skin weathered by sun and time, white hair slicked back from a noble forehead, and eyes a piercing green that seemed to see through all pretense into the soul.

  "Who are you?" I asked, wiping tears from my cheeks.

  "One of God's many emissaries," he replied, his voice deep and resonant yet gentle. "There are those you may never know, may never thank, and may never meet that are fighting at this very moment to make everything right again. Just focus on yourself and Oliver. Everything will be okay in due time. Have faith, trust, and knowing. You are stronger than you know. You are loved unconditionally, Julia."

  He knew my son's name. He knew my name. Somehow those details penetrated my grief more profoundly than anything else. This stranger knew my child.

  "Wait," I called as he turned to go. "What's happening?”

  He paused, those green eyes holding mine with intensity that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't.

  "The end of all cycles. Pain comes before healing, always." His expression softened. "She is not lost, Julia. Just transformed. Maggie is with you. Remember that when the final veil falls."

  He knew Maggie’s name too.

  Before I could ask anything more, he walked away, his tall figure gradually fading into the dreamscape.

  I woke with a start, Oliver still curled against me, sleeping the deep sleep of emotional exhaustion. The first gray light of dawn filtered through my bedroom window. The clock read 5:17 AM.

  Moving carefully to avoid waking him, I slipped from the bed and went to the window.

  The man from my dream—so vivid I could still feel the pressure of his arms around us, still smell that peculiar scent of ozone and something indefinable.

  God's emissary, he'd called himself. Fighting to make things right.

  I touched the glass, cool beneath my fingertips. "I want to believe you," I whispered. "I want to believe this has meaning. That Maggie didn't die for nothing in a world gone insane."

  No answer came save the distant cry of a gull and the first stirrings of a city waking to another day of uncertainty.

  I returned to bed, gathering my sleeping son close, treasuring his warmth and solidity in a reality grown increasingly insubstantial.

  Whatever came next—whatever bubbles would appear, whatever battles were being fought by unknown warriors—we would face it too. Oliver, Maggie, and I. Together.

  And if the ‘veil’ fell, as the man had cryptically suggested it would, I would look for Maggie. Not her body, which I knew would soon lie in consecrated ground at St. Anthony's cemetery, but her spirit—transformed, as he had said, but not lost. By God’s grace.

  My grandmother had taught me that grief is love with nowhere to go. Perhaps mine could travel up to the stars, beyond those watching eyes, to wherever my daughter now resided.

  "Mama?" Oliver stirred beside me, his voice thick with sleep and yesterday's tears.

  "I'm here, baby," I whispered, stroking his hair.

  "I had a dream about a man," he murmured. "A tall man with white hair. He said Maggie was okay."

  My breath caught. "I... I had the same dream."

  Oliver's eyes widened. "Really? He told me I need to be brave and help you, because you'll be sad for a while."

  "Did he tell you his name?"

  Oliver shook his head. "But he felt... safe. Like how Pastor Michael says angels feel. Do you think he was an angel, Mama?"

  I thought of those penetrating green eyes, the certainty in his voice when he spoke of those fighting to "make everything right."

  "Maybe," I allowed. "Or something like an angel."

  Oliver sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I'm still sad about Maggie."

  "We'll be sad about Maggie for a long time," I said honestly. "That's okay. Sad is how we honor how much we loved her."

  He nodded solemnly. "Can we have pancakes? Maggie liked pancakes."

  "Yes," I agreed, finding strength from somewhere to swing my legs over the side of the bed. "We can have pancakes in Maggie's honor."

  As I moved through the motions of our morning routine—measuring flour, cracking eggs, heating the griddle—I felt a strange dual awareness. Grief sat heavy in my chest, a physical weight that made each movement an effort. Yet alongside it grew something resilient—not hope exactly, but endurance. The will to continue, to care for my remaining child, to bear witness to whatever came next.

  Outside our window, Brooklyn was waking to the new normal—streets quieter than they should be, people moving with the careful alertness of prey animals in open terrain.

  The man in our shared dream had said those we may never meet were fighting to make things right again. Fighting what? Fighting whom? And how did it connect to Maggie's death in that terrible place, to the hospital encased in that light blue bubble, or to the watching eyes in my dreams?

  I didn't know. Might never know. But I could fight my own battle here—the battle to create normalcy for Oliver, to honor Maggie's memory, to keep faith when evidence of God's plan seemed terrifyingly absent.

  "Pancakes are almost ready," I called, flipping the last batch. "Come wash your hands."

  Oliver appeared in the doorway, clutching something I hadn't seen in years—his old stuffed white lion, long abandoned as "too babyish" but now hugged tight against his chest.

  "Do you think the man will come back?" he asked. "In our dreams, I mean?"

  I slid the pancakes onto a plate, considering my answer carefully. "I don't know, sweetheart. But I think he told us what we needed to hear."

  Oliver nodded, accepting this with the strange wisdom children sometimes possess in the face of tragedy. "I'm glad we both saw him. That means he's real, right?"

  "Real in some way," I agreed, setting the plate on our table—a table with one empty chair we both tried not to look at.

  As we ate, I glanced again at the sky outside our window.

  The man's words echoed in my mind: Just focus on yourself and Oliver. Everything will be okay in due time. You are loved.

  "We'll get through this," I told Oliver, reaching across the table to squeeze his small hand. "One day at a time."

  He nodded, maple syrup glistening at the corner of his mouth. "Together."

  "Together," I affirmed.

  Outside, the sky continued to change, the world continued its strange transformation, and somewhere—if my dream held any truth—unknown warriors fought battles beyond my comprehension. But here, in our small Brooklyn apartment, we created our own reality through shared pancakes and the simple, profound act of continuing to live.

  For now, that would have to be enough.