“Suze, today we examined two opposing conceptions of God. I am curious... how do you see it?”

  The room dipped slightly into shadow as a gray cloud slid across the sun, soft light fading from the white walls and rows of screens. Suze's fingers hovered above her laptop trackpad. On the corner of her open document, a digital sketch sat half-finished: a figure dissolving into thin lines, like a thought struggling to take form.

  “Well,” she began, voice calm but certain, “both views hold their truth. When Voltaire argued that humanity needs God, I see his point. Beyond the social order and structure religion created, it gave us a way to face suffering... and mortality. It offered meaning, and a way to accept the fact that life ends.”

  Soft murmurs slipped through the room.

  “And then Nietzsche,” she continued, still steady, “his idea that we killed God is not just rebellion or cynicism. It made sense in his time, and honestly it still does. He was not celebrating the absence of God. He was confronting it. Without divine purpose, we either fall into meaninglessness, or we create meaning ourselves. Which makes us,” she paused briefly, “not believers, but creators. In a way, small gods of our own world.”

  “So you are an atheist, right?” a voice from the back of the class asked, sharp with quiet judgment. Suze lifted her gaze to meet Emine’s eyes, a girl with Turkish roots, gentle in nature yet fierce whenever faith entered the room. “I would not say so. I do not know whether there is or is not a God. But if there is, I am certain that He is not understood by us.”

  A couple of students glanced at the clock, already half-packed as the end of the lesson crept close.

  ““As you can see, most of your classmates already noticed we are nearly out of time. But Suze, could you explain your point a bit further? You made a very interesting claim.”

  She felt her classmates’ eyes fixed restlessly on her. She wanted to make her point, yet she also did not want to be the one who made the lesson run longer for everyone else.

  “Well, if there is a God, then some of the statements about Him cannot all be true. For example, the two most common ones are that He is all-powerful and all-knowing, and that He is all-good. But those two statements cannot logically be true at the same time. Because why would He be all-good and still let people die in natural disasters if He could stop it? You can argue that it might be some kind of test, but that would be cruel. And if He is all-powerful, then He is the reason for that disaster. So maybe He is not all-good, but simply logical, and maybe we humans are not as important to Him as we think we are. Maybe we are the problem, in His view. There are so many ways you can interpret God, even among those who follow the same teachings, that there is no way to know if we are interpreting Him correctly. But because we can interpret Him in so many ways, we can convince ourselves there is a higher being, while maybe there is not even one. I do hope there is, but maybe God is not at all what we imagined Him to be.”

  The teacher exhaled softly as the room filled with the rustle of backpacks and closing laptops.

  “Right… well, good thoughts today. We will continue this next week, so try to think about where you stand before then. I do not have anything else, so… you can go. Have a nice weekend.”

  She closes her laptop and starts packing, while her classmates stream out of the room, mumbling polite goodbyes and weekend wishes to the teacher. The scrape of chairs and low chatter mixes with the dull hum of hallway noise spilling in through the door.

  Fitting her laptop into her backpack is, like always, an awkward little battle. The bag is too small and too lived-in, stuffed with the essentials she never thinks about but always needs. A worn notebook. Her laptop sleeve. And her water bottle, the same one her father gave her when she was still small enough to believe water tasted different depending on where you drank it.

  She shifts the notebook forward to make space, slides the laptop into its sleeve, and presses down slightly until the zipper finally gives in. A small sigh escapes her, half routine annoyance, half comfort in the familiarity of it.

  She offers the teacher a quiet “Have a nice weekend,” slings the backpack over her shoulder, and joins the slow river of students heading into the hallway, toward the station and the rest of the world waiting outside the school doors.

  She steps through the doors and the air hits her at once, cold and heavy with the kind of gray sky that never makes up its mind. Students spill out ahead of her, voices blending into damp pavement noise. She keeps her head down, weaving through bodies and hurried footsteps, wishing she could dissolve into the background instead of pushing past strangers who move without looking. Her breath fogs faintly in the chill as she walks the familiar ten minutes in quiet rhythm, the campus fading behind her and the sharp scent of wet concrete taking its place.

  By the time she reaches the platform, the display blinks a small announcement: five-minute delay.

  She lets out a small smile. There is probably a leaf on the track again.

  She puts in her earbuds and sits on one of the cold black steel benches on the platform. She looks around and, as always, people already gather in a tight cluster exactly where they predict the train doors will stop. Some even walk along with the train before it fully reaches the platform, pacing with it like jockeys waiting to sprint, just so they can plant themselves right in front of a door.

  She never understands it. Why people cannot just be kind and give others space to step off first. It is not a royal arrival. No one here is a celebrity stepping out onto a red carpet. It is just public transport. Yet somehow, everyone behaves as if securing a seat is a life-and-death mission.

  The train rolls in, brakes squeal, and the ritual begins like clockwork. Elbows, backpacks, bodies shuffling forward before the doors even slide open. She waits. She always waits. No point joining the stampede. The people inside need to get out first anyway.

  She lets the whole crowd funnel in ahead of her, taking her time. When she finally steps inside, warm air greets her, mixed with the faint scent of coats and tired commuters. Instead of heading straight into the full carriage, she moves to the staircase and slips onto the middle step leading to the upper level.

  The doors slide shut. A short silence.

  Then the whistle blows and the train starts to move.

  The glass in the door shows nothing clear, just color sliding past, shapes without edges.

  She blinks once, slowly, like she is trying to catch a thought before it slips away, and doesn’t.

  Her hand goes to her bag, almost on instinct. Notebook out. Balance on her lap. Pencil resting ready between her fingers.

  She doesn’t look at the page right away. Just sits with it for a second, breathing through the noise in her head that has no words.

  The pencil moves without aim, just looking for somewhere to go. Lines stack, drift, pull together into a loose shape… tall, leaning ever so slightly forward, as if in conversation with something the page can’t show. No face, not even the hint of one. Only weight, a presence more than a person.

  Above where a head might be, she circles once, hesitates, drags the graphite through it, leaving only a blurred ring… not gone, not whole. Just a thought she didn’t commit to.

  Beside the figure a second form appears almost by accident, smaller but still huge in comparison, more suggestion than shape. A curve that could be a back. Two sharp flicks that might be ears. Or nothing. She isn’t deciding.

  She pauses, pencil resting.

  Not sure whether to wipe the page clean

  or leave whatever this is where it landed.

  She stares at the page. Two shapes, unclear, unfinished. They don’t mean anything. They shouldn't mean anything.

  What if God is just misunderstood?

  The thought shows up again, sharp and tired at the same time. Annoying. Too big. Too vague.

  Like an echo that sounds different every time you hear it.

  She scribbles the line above the drawing, then looks at it and hates how little it gives back.

  A small sound escapes her throat, half sigh, half frustration. Fine. Enough.

  She shut her notebook and puts it back in her bag.

  She pulls out her phone.

  The screen lit up. Her feed came alive at once, the first video already playing.

  Jewish teacher got punched today and the comments are cheering.

  What is happening?

  She stares for a second.

  How do people laugh at that?

  Why can't people just accept that not all people think alike or believe the same thing?

  She swipes.

  “Why is everyone suddenly talking about religion again?

  Seems like everybody is converting these days.”

  Her brows lift slightly.

  Every clip lately feels like a sermon, or a riot disguised as one.

  Like the whole world is picking a side while pretending they aren’t.

  Why isn’t there anything fun and simple anymore?

  She swipes left to her following tab, hoping for something, anything… lighter.

  A woman appeared with makeup supplies in front of her.

  “Get ready with me while I talk about men, why can’t they just behave anymore?”

  She taps the screen, pausing it.

  Static image, open mouth, frozen mascara wand.

  God.

  It’s always war.

  Man vs woman, woman vs man.

  Like we’re all training to hate each other before we even meet.

  Why can’t society just accept that we need men and women alike?

  We’re supposed to be on the same side.

  But now everyone talks like we’re enemies by default.

  She swipes again, back to the For You feed.

  “This holy man has just cured cancer!... look the proof! Religious leaders outclass modern health science?”

  Her jaw tightens.

  Amazing. It's either hate content or miracle bait.

  No middle ground. No breathing room.

  When did life stop being about creating memories and meaningful connections?

  Can this even be true?

  She swipes.

  “This populist kid cried during a debate, and the lefties comments are savage.

  Nobody argues anymore, they just want blood on both sides”

  She exhales slowly through her nose.

  Of course.

  Tears aren’t allowed unless they’re weaponized.

  Everyone wants a victory, not a conversation.

  No wonder, everything feels like it’s cracking.

  Swipe.

  “Anyone else hearing fireworks and shouting again?

  Cities feel like they might snap.”

  Her stomach coils, a quiet knot.

  Even online noise sounds like sirens lately.

  What's wrong with this world?

  Violence, politics, religion…

  Where are the people who just live?

  Where did they go?

  She lifted her eyes from the screen. The blur outside the windows became shapes again, buildings took form again.

  The train finally stopped, she got off and headed home. Her neighborhood was gray and worn, rows of small post-war houses pressed close together, built to be useful, not beautiful. Faded yards with overgrown shrubs lined the street, old bikes leaned against wooden fences. A little neglected, a little forgotten. But it was still home.

  She walked up the short stone path to the door, the slabs still uneven like always. The key had to go in upside-down, a small flaw no one ever bothered to fix. She turned it, pushed the door open, and the familiar scent of home rose to meet her, soft and reassuring in a way nothing else was.

  Voices burst from upstairs the moment she steps inside.

  “PUSH, HE’S IN KITCHEN… WAIT… WAIT… LET ME FLANK… SKUDUDU…LET’S GO!”

  Suze winces.

  Why can’t he ever just talk instead of yell, like a normal human being?

  “Sam! If you can’t keep it down, I will cut the internet!”

  A frantic reply shoots down the stairs.

  “SORRY, DAD!”

  Despite herself, a small smile forms as she hangs her coat on the hook.

  “I’m home,” she calls softly.

  The living room door opens. Her father fills the frame, tall, broad, sturdy in the kind of way only years of physical work can carve into a man. His arms open without a word. She steps into them immediately, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that feels like exhaling.

  “How was school, little one?” he asks, voice low and warm.

  “Welcome home, darling,” her mother calls from the kitchen, pots simmering behind her voice.

  “Hi, Mom,” Suze replies, pulling back from her father and meeting his eyes. “School was… interesting. We discussed some heavy stuff, so I'm kind of tired.”

  “That’s okay. Take it easy. Dinner will be ready soon,” he says, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “Thank you,” she said with a light tremble in her voice.

  She follows him into the living room and settles beside him on the couch. The cushions dip under her weight, warm from where he’d been sitting. For a moment she just lets herself sink into it, eyes half closing as the noise of the day softens and her mind drifts somewhere quieter.

  The news intro breaks into the room with a short sequence of crisp piano tones, the kind that sound official without trying. Blue and red graphics sweep across the screen in clean bars, fading in and out as the headline shapes assemble for a brief moment before dissolving again.

  “Good evening. We interrupt your regular programming for an expanded bulletin. What began as a string of viral ‘miracle’ videos, has over the last forty-eight hours, metastasized into a continent-wide crisis. Earlier today, violent clashes flared in Amsterdam, London and Rome; cities that only days ago felt secure are now scenes of pitched street fighting. In Warsaw and several towns across Poland, armed convoys enforced ad-hoc curfews. In Kyiv, volunteer patrols report exchanges of fire on the outskirts. In the Middle East, outbreaks in Beirut and parts of Anatolia have left entire districts abandoned. The situation is fluid and worsening.

  Our reporters confirm dozens dead, hundreds wounded and thousands displaced. Footage from this morning shows masked groups moving through a suburb of Amsterdam, dragging residents from their homes. A different clip blurred, looped, spread thousands of times shows a crowd chanting outside a basilica in Rome after a promoter shared a video claiming a miraculous healing. Within hours, that video had been reframed as proof by more extreme channels. The momentum was fast. The violence followed.

  On the air now are voices from the streets.

  “We will take back our land,” shouted one masked speaker in a clip filmed near the central station in Amsterdam. “This country must bow.”

  “They’re taking our jobs, our women, our future,” a rallying young man told a camera in a square in Milan. “We will cleanse this place.”

  “If the state won’t act, we will,” said a bearded man in a home video clip posted last night and then amplified by accounts with millions of followers. “Force brings order.”

  We asked whether this is a spontaneous outbreak or the result of organized campaigns. Intelligence officials say the answer is both. There are emergent local cells, opportunistic militias and, increasingly, cross-border coordination. Encrypted channels show instructions circulating on how to identify targets and how to move loosely organized groups without leaving a trace. Specialists in digital influence warn of coordinated messaging campaigns that use simple, repeated claims to convert anger into action.

  Political response has been frantic and, in parts, contradictory. Late this afternoon, a statement from Warsaw warned that the country would not tolerate ‘foreign-affiliated militias’ operating on its soil and said security forces had been authorized to ‘use force where necessary.’ In Rome, the prime minister used the word “decisive” and announced the deployment of additional paramilitary units. In The Hague, officials urged de-escalation and called for emergency cooperation among EU partners. In London, ministers convened late into the evening. Several capitals have closed consulates and ordered heightened readiness along transport hubs.

  Yet rhetoric has hardened in ways that terrify many analysts. A senior diplomat said on condition of anonymity: “When leaders speak of consequences and restoration by force in the same breath as a moral crusade, there is no textual space left for compromise.” In private, several European officials asked whether longer-standing geopolitical fissures could now snap the continent into broader conflict. The phrase ‘local incidents’ no longer fits what we see on the feeds.

  And then the most dangerous whisper: escalation to state-on-state action. There are unconfirmed reports tonight that a coalition of paramilitary-aligned groups in two bordering states has crossed minor border points and taken control of small towns. Governments have pressed back with claims of sovereignty and vows to defend national territory. Military movements, even small ones, raise the terrible specter of unintended escalation. Experts who track escalation dynamics warn that an inversion can happen quickly: once state actors begin to tiptoe into those spaces, alliances can be invoked, and alliances have logics of their own.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  The fear of escalation is no longer abstract. In a closed briefing, one European security adviser used the phrase “contagion risk” and added, quietly, “We have to assume actors on multiple levels might view a limited strike as acceptable. That’s when accidents happen.” Another official, speaking in measured tones, said there is now a realistic debate in several capitals about thresholds: what happens if a strike kills civilians? How quickly might allied states respond? For older strategists, those questions immediately provoke the long-dreaded contingency: nuclear doctrine is built on thresholds and deterrence; when those thresholds are publicly discussed, the safety net thins.

  Back on the streets, the rhetoric is uglier, direct, and immediate.

  “We’re going to force this land to bend,” said one video clip that has been shared tens of thousands of times.

  “Lock the borders,” read another caption over a montage of marching men.

  “Convert or be removed,” screamed a voice at a rally captured in grainy footage; the crowd replied with a chant.

  Humanitarian voices plead for calm. A nurse working in an improvised clinic said: “We have people who will not tell us where they are from. They are afraid to speak. We are running out of bandages.” A teacher recorded a short message: “Children cannot live like this. We do not learn history to repeat it in fire.”

  Digital analysts describe the mechanism with chilling clarity. Bots and coordinated accounts are amplifying the simplest messages of rage, certainty, a promise of belonging. Algorithms reward those messages and deliver them to new audiences. That amplification compresses time: a movement that once took months to organize now can coalesce in days. It becomes nearly impossible for local institutions to intervene before violence convulses a neighborhood.

  Economic signals are reacting. Port traffic into several hub cities is slowing. Airlines are cancelling flights to certain regional airports. Markets are jittery; traders watch for supply chain disruptions, which, in some corridors, are already being reported. Humanitarian agencies warn of a refugee flow that could reach into the hundreds of thousands if urban centers are besieged.

  We have also heard a rising vein of rhetoric from unexpected quarters: some governments in regions traditionally seen as cautious about cross-border operations are now publicly justifying support for “stabilizing missions” in neighboring states. That language framed as humanitarian or protective is dangerous at this moment because it can be translated on the ground into boots and blockades. In several capitals tonight, officials argued that failing to act would be to invite chaos; others argued that the risk of deeper war is the price of inaction.

  An international security analyst put it plainly: “When two or more governments adopt narratives that treat domestic unrest in another country as a justification for intervention, you move from containment to confrontation. Confrontation is the fast lane to escalation.”

  The imagery tonight is stark. We have footage of families fleeing with suitcases at dawn in the outskirts of Istanbul. We have a damaged tram in a southern European city, its windows broken and graffiti covering its side. We have a market gutted by fire where people once sold fruit and bread. We have video of groups forming ad-hoc checkpoints in neighborhoods, armed with makeshift weapons and stolen firearms.

  Law enforcement across the continent says it is stretched thin. In many cases, the groups attacking property and people are small, mobile, and organized enough to disperse before coordinated forces arrive. Volunteers set up spontaneous barricades in some districts. Local leaders call for calm while also asking for protection. International bodies have issued statements, but statements rarely stop a bullet.

  Our correspondent in the capital described the mood: “People are in shock, but there’s a hardening too. Some are arming themselves, others are organizing to help. The divisions have become lines: identity, faith, nationality, property. The simplicity of the message: choose us, or you are the enemy. Makes it easier for people who feel left behind to pick a side.”

  And that is the most dangerous part. Complexity collapses into binary choices; binary choices allow violence to be moralized. Once moralized, violence becomes not only acceptable but necessary in the minds of those convinced.

  For households like yours watching this at the kitchen table tonight, the signal is twofold and brutal: first, the world you know can break close to home; second, mechanisms once held as sacred international law, judicial process, the idea of negotiation are fraying under the weight of certainty and rage.

  What can citizens do? Authorities urge caution: avoid large gatherings, report credible threats to police, assist neighbors, and stay informed through verified channels. Humanitarian organizations advise preparing basic supplies and planning safe routes.

  We close with this caution: when words of exclusion become commands, it is only a matter of time before someone translates those words into action. The international system was built around preventing that translation. Right now, that system is under acute stress.

  We will continue to follow developments through the night. If you are in a troubled area, seek shelter and contact local authorities. If you have verified information of criminal acts, report it to the police.

  Dinner is ready.

  Suze blinks herself back into the room as Dad switches off the TV and heads toward the kitchen. She trails after him, still half on autopilot.

  Mom is already setting the last plate down when they walk in. A moment later, Sam barrels down the stairs, breathless and loud as always.

  They sit. Chairs scrape, plates shift, nothing special… just the usual rhythm of getting settled.

  Suze picks up her fork, the motions familiar enough to carry her along. The evening slides into place without effort.

  Dad looks at her over his food. “Long day?”

  She shrugs lightly. “A lot of debating. People got loud again.”

  Her fork taps once against her plate. “Emine had a new sticker on her laptop. Faith is meaning. Felt a bit… pointed.”

  She doesn’t elaborate, but her tone speaks for her.

  Dad shakes his head. “People think a slogan makes them deep.”

  Mom gives him a small nudge with her elbow. “Let’s not start.”

  Then, softer to Suze: “Don’t let one girl get to you, sweetheart.”

  Suze nods, though she’s not sure if she agrees.

  Sam, already half-done with his plate, bounces in place.

  “Can we play something after dinner? Please? Like… please please?”

  Dad sighs. “You never sit still.”

  “That’s literally not my fault,” Sam argues, hands flying everywhere. “My brain moves fast.”

  Mom laughs under her breath. “One game. Something simple.”

  Dinner finishes in the usual blend of small sounds: the scrape of cutlery, Sam humming part of a song he doesn’t remember the words to, Mom asking Dad about his next early shift. It’s ordinary, grounding.

  When they’re done, Sam is already digging in the living-room cabinet.

  He drags out a slightly battered box, corners taped once by Mom.

  Dad eyes it like it’s a trap. “Not that one.”

  “It’s fun,” Sam insists.

  “It’s chaos,” Dad counters.

  Mom gives Suze a warm, knowing look. “Help me set it up?”

  They clear the table together. Suze wipes a few crumbs into her palm, washes her hands at the sink, then returns to find Sam already sitting cross-legged on his chair, clutching dice like they’re sacred relics.

  The game begins.

  Sam rolls too hard, nearly knocking a glass over.

  Dad mutters something about “no finesse.”

  Mom moves her pawn with perfect care.

  Suze plays quietly, observing more than competing.

  Sam narrates every move, bouncing every few seconds.

  Dad complains that all the good tiles avoid him on purpose.

  Mom gently tells them both to behave.

  Suze watches them with the soft detachment of someone who loves from a distance.

  Sam wins. Of course he does.

  He leaps up like he’s unlocked a new level in life.

  Mom shoos him down before the neighbors think a crime is happening.

  They clean up. No discussion needed, each person knows their role.

  Mom stacks the plates from earlier.

  Dad puts the game back in the cabinet with a resigned grunt.

  Sam disappears upstairs with a shout of “I’m not tired!”

  Eventually, the house settles again.

  Suze heads upstairs, gathering her hair into a loose knot with one hand as she walks.

  Her room greets her in soft, muted colors, not overly girly, just hers.

  The walls hold a few pencil sketches taped up with worn washi tape.

  A stack of well-read books sits on her nightstand: Camus, Kafka, a battered copy of Dostojevski with the spine split near the middle.

  Her desk is cluttered with half-used notebooks, a chipped ceramic mug full of pens, and a small lamp with a warm yellow glow.

  A string of dim fairy lights hangs along the window frame, not aesthetic for Instagram, just something she added years ago and never bothered to remove.

  Her bed is soft and slightly messy, with a pale lavender blanket she’s had since she was twelve and refuses to replace. A single plush fox sits in the corner of the pillow, something she pretends not to care about but never hides.

  She changes into an oversized T-shirt, brushes her teeth, washes her face.

  The bathroom mirror fogs slightly from the warm water, framing her tired eyes.

  Returning to her room, she switches off the main light and crawls under the lavender blanket. The fairy lights glow faintly, turning the room into a small, safe universe of muted color.

  Downstairs, Dad closes a cabinet.

  Mom turns off the kitchen light.

  Sam’s footsteps thump once, then vanish behind his door.

  The house settles into itself.

  Warm and familiar.

  Suze lets her eyes close.

  Morning drifts in slowly.

  Light crawls across Suze’s room before she does. A soft, warm stripe climbs the posters on her wall, brushes over the pile of clothes she never folded, and finally reaches her face. She wrinkles her nose, half-buried in her pillow, then forces one eye open.

  The world is too bright for a weekend.

  She turns her head. No alarm. No vibration. Just sunlight and the faint hum of a city not quite awake. She lets out a groan, the kind that belongs to mornings with no urgency. Her hair sticks to one side of her face, a tangled, chaotic shape that feels like an insult from the universe.

  Great.

  She sits up slowly. Her blanket slips into her lap. The room smells faintly of lavender from the little spray her mom keeps giving her even though she insists she does not use it. She rubs her eyes, blinks a few times, then pushes herself out of bed.

  Bathroom tiles meet her bare feet with a small shock of cold.

  The mirror is honest in the worst way. Her hair looks like she slept inside a tornado. She leans closer, squinting at the mess, trying to understand how it even formed.

  Perfect, she thought. Not impressed by her own appearance.

  She brushes. The brush catches. She winces. She tries again. It takes minutes, too many, until it stops fighting and begins to fall somewhat normally. She wets her hands and smooths the stubborn pieces that refuse to cooperate. It is not perfect, but it is alive again.

  She brushes her teeth next, leaning her hip against the sink. Mint climbs up her tongue. She watches herself in the mirror through half-lidded eyes. There is a faint bruise of sleep under them. Nothing makeup cannot fix.

  The shower steams up quickly. Warm water hits her shoulders and pulls a quiet sigh out of her chest. She rests her forehead against the wall for a moment, letting the heat run down her back, washing off the last pieces of yesterday. Her mind feels slow and clean in the simple way mornings can give.

  When she steps out, wrapped in her oversized towel, the mirror has fogged into soft shapes. She draws a quick line in the condensation with her finger before she realizes she does not even know what she meant to draw.

  Makeup is slow today. She sits at her desk, small mirror propped up by a stack of books. She ties her hair back loosely, applies foundation with quiet taps, blends until the tiredness softens. Mascara next. Tiny strokes. Familiar. Quiet. She adds a bit of blush because she feels pale, then unties her hair again. It falls better now.

  She looks like herself again.

  She gets dressed. Comfortable clothes. A soft sweater and jeans, nothing fancy.

  Halfway through folding her pajamas when it happens.

  The doorbell rings.

  “I got it!” Dad shouts from downstairs.

  The ease in his voice lasts three seconds. Maybe less.

  Suze folds the last of her clothes, distracted, still half in the softness of morning. Who even rings the bell this early? She hears the front door click open.

  Then the world breaks.

  “You cancer infidels!”

  The scream is so sudden the walls seem to flinch. Heavy boots scrape violently against the floor. Something slams into the wall hard enough that her lamp rattles on her nightstand.

  “Dad?” she whispers, but the house answers for her.

  A blunt, sickening impact. A grunt ripped from a man’s chest. A second impact, wetter, like a punch into something that gives way. Her father tries to speak, but it’s swallowed in another violent blow, a low, crushed exhale that sounds too final.

  “Are there more?” a man demands below.

  Someone answers not with words but with pain. Her father again. A broken sound, half breath, half body.

  Suze freezes where she stands. Her heartbeat is frantic in her throat.

  Sam’s bedroom door swings open down the hall.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  “Sam,” she whispers, but he is already running. Little feet pounding, hopeful, terrified.

  “Daddy!” he cries, and it is the kind of cry that guts a person, pure and high and desperate, containing every year he is too young to understand danger.

  “Grab him!” a voice snaps.

  A thud.

  A heavy thud.

  Then a wet choking sound, small and awful, like someone trying to breathe through blood or a hand crushing his throat. His heels kick against the wall. She hears it. Three kicks. Then none.

  Her breath leaves her body. She does not know if she screams. She only knows the silence that follows Sam’s fall is louder than anything before it.

  “Another one upstairs,” a man growls. “Find the last infidel.”

  She moves. Slowly. Mechanically. Her limbs do not feel like hers. She backs toward her closet, opens it with shaking fingers, and slips inside, pulling the door nearly shut, leaving just a thin line of air and darkness.

  Below, someone grabs her mother.

  Eva’s voice is high, frantic. “Please, please, my son my”

  A slap cuts the sentence in half.

  “Cleanse her,” another man commands.

  A bottle breaks. Sharp glass. A splash. Then a bloom of sound, fire catching something that should never burn.

  The scream that follows is not human. It tears through the hallway, jagged and endless. Suze claps a hand over her own mouth, but it does nothing. The screams go on. Her mother’s feet pound against the floor, scraping, dragging. A chair tips. Something slams into a counter. The room below roars with heat.

  The smell reaches her next.

  Not smoke.

  Something thicker.

  Sweet and burning.

  She folds into herself, nails digging into her shins, breath shaking her entire body. Her mind tries to make sense of what she hears, but nothing inside her is built for these sounds.

  Footsteps thunder up the stairs.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  The weight of men who know there is still one person left.

  “Check every room,” someone says.

  “That boy said she is here.”

  The hallway fills with boots and breathing. Doors open. Slam. Open. Slam. One voice mutters a prayer under his breath, rhythmic, ritualistic. Another laughs, a short, sharp sound that cracks the air open.

  Suze presses her forehead against the wood of the closet door. She can’t cry. She can’t breathe loud. She can’t be anything. Her pulse is a frantic drum inside her skull.

  The footsteps stop right outside her room.

  Her door opens slowly.

  Hinges creak like something being stretched apart.

  A man steps inside. She hears his boots on her carpet. They move softly, searching. A hand drags across her desk. Papers shift. A pencil rolls. A drawer opens.

  Someone else stands in the doorway, breathing hard, as if excited.

  A voice she recognizes but cannot place says, feminine and certain, “There is one more.”

  And before she understands it, before her mind can form a single last thought, she drifts.

  Not downward.

  Not upward.

  Just… away.

  A lightness spreads through her, quiet and absolute, as if the weight of her body has been peeled off like old clothing. Something opens inside her, not a door, not a tunnel, but a widening, vast, trembling space that feels strangely familiar, like a memory she never lived but somehow always carried.

  Her life does not play in front of her in neat order. It rises in fragments, the way dreams rise: her mother’s laugh cutting through the kitchen steam, Sam’s small hands tugging her sleeve, her father humming off-key in the car. Nothing painful follows her. Only the warm pieces drift upward. The rest falls away like dust.

  A red spider lily glows at the edge of her vision, impossibly bright, its petals moving though there is no wind. It does not speak. It does not beckon. It simply exists, certain of its place in a world she no longer belongs to.

  Somehow she understands that it knows the way, even if she does not.

  Around her, something unfolds with the hush of pages turning. Gates, doors, thresholds or the idea of them shimmer in shapes she cannot fully see. Heaven, Jannah, Shamayim, words she learned but never believed in with her whole chest, drift through her mind like floating labels in a language she suddenly half-remembers.

  None of them matter here.

  None of them feel more real than the soft red light of the lily.

  She is not asked to choose.

  She is not told where to go.

  The world she enters has no walls and no sky, yet she recognizes it instantly, with the kind of recognition that hurts.

  This is where she was before she was born.

  This place of quiet, this border between being and not being.

  She has returned to it without effort, without fear, as if the entire journey of her life was only a brief detour from this familiar stillness.

  For a breathless moment she feels it, a truth without words, a warmth without shape.

  Not salvation.

  Not judgment.

  Just… an ending that circles back into something ancient and nameless.

  Then the light folds around her, soft as a last exhale,

  and for a moment she feels herself loosening from everything she ever was,

  drifting back into the quiet she came from,

  before becoming nothingness.