Iris was staring listlessly out the window after what could only be described as a sluggish day.
Fridays at the cathedral were practically still. Most of the week's duties—blessings, sermons, meetings, healings—were wrapped up by Thursday, leaving the final day as something of a quiet pause. No schedule. No obligations. Just time, stretching on like a hallway with no doors.
"In the short time I've been here," she thought, "I got used to things pretty fast. World travelers aren't common, sure, but apparently, I'm not the first. Still, back on Earth... if you'd told me I'd end up as the church's official miracle mascot, I probably would've laughed."
In her old life, the idea of becoming a cathedral's Saint sounded almost enviable. Lavish robes. Adoration. Donations like clockwork. Maybe enough money to treat her mother to hotpot every few weeks. A good salary. A steady life.
But that was Earth. And this was… somewhere else.
Her gaze drifted down to her lap, where her hands were loosely clasped. She hadn't even changed out of her nightgown. She didn't have to. Nobody really expected anything from her today. Saints, apparently, didn't follow schedules.
A soft chime rang out—distant and hollow, the cathedral bell marking the hour.
And just like that, her mind slipped away.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
It had been winter. The kind that sank into your bones, that made the city feel like concrete and silence.
She passed by them every morning on the way to work. Every evening after. The homeless, huddled in alleys beside the station. Elderly men with hands gnarled from frost, women curled into themselves beneath threadbare blankets, young eyes dulled from too many days without food or kindness.
They didn't beg loudly. Just sat there, heads bowed, like they'd long since stopped hoping anyone would meet their gaze. Sometimes they had paper cups or plastic lids in front of them—meant for coins, not conversation.
Iris remembered how her hands always tightened around her grocery bags. Not from fear. But from shame.
Because every time she saw them, something inside her clenched.
"If I stop… I won't be able to walk away.""If I help once… I'll want to help again.""And I can't even afford Mom's meds this month."
So she walked past. Every time. And every time, it hurt. She told herself she'd help them when things got better. When she could breathe without checking her account balance ten times a week.
"Someday," she used to whisper, like a promise to herself."Someday, I'll come back. And I'll help."
But "someday" never came.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
She wanted to be a nurse once.
Not for money. Not for prestige. She just… wanted to help. She studied hard. Skipped parties. Pulled all-nighters on test weeks. She memorized drug names and emergency procedures, read case studies in bed, and imagined herself saving lives in neat white scrubs.
Her grades were solid. Her heart was in the right place.
The rejection email was short. Cold. Polite.
"We regret to inform you..."
It crushed her quietly. She never showed anyone. Never told her mother.
Later, she found out someone less qualified had been accepted. Someone with connections. Someone who knew someone who knew someone else.
Iris just stared at the ceiling of her rented room that night, watching a spider crawl across the cracks in the plaster.
That was the night the dream died.
So she took the first job she could find—a call center. Then another. Then another. One had terrible hours. One had a broken AC. One had her crying in stairwells during lunch breaks.
The last one? It was okay. Quiet cubicle. Clean desk. Her own chair.
But even there, she still got screamed at. Still felt sick before payday. Still stared at the ceiling some nights, wondering what the hell she was doing.
The dream was long gone by then. But the emptiness stayed.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
Her father died too soon.
She was barely a teenager. The word "leukemia" sounded like something from a textbook, not a death sentence.
But reality didn't wait. There wasn't enough money. Or time. By the time she wrapped her head around what it meant, he was already gone.
She remembered how cold his hands were in the hospital. She remembered her mom sitting beside the bed, holding back tears and failing. Iris had tried to be strong. Pretended to be okay.
She wasn't.
Years later, her mother had a stroke. It happened during one of Iris's double shifts. A neighbor called.
She dropped the headset mid-call, ignored her supervisor's screaming threats, and ran. Her legs burned. Her lungs felt like fire.
She still didn't make it in time.
Her mother survived—but she was never the same. Maintenance medication. Physical therapy. Chronic pain. And Iris carried the guilt like it was stitched into her skin.
She never forgave herself for not being there.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
She dated once.
Just once. Nineteen and dumb and hopeful.
He was older. Handsome in a shallow way. Told her she was "a good girl." Safe. Predictable.
She thought maybe that was enough.
He cheated two months in. Told his friends she was practice. Just something to brag about.
She dumped him without drama. Blocked his number. Deleted his photos. Ripped him out of her life like a rotting tooth.
But the wound stayed tender for years.
She didn't open up to anyone after that. She couldn't afford to. She didn't have the heart—or the time—to bleed again.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
Otome games were just fiction. At least, that's what she told herself.
Fantasy worlds. Handsome men. Happy endings she could pretend were hers.
She liked the ones with magic and danger, where love bloomed in shadow.
The Demon King's route changed everything. He was cold. Distant. Untouchable. But as the story unfolded, he softened. Not all at once. Not with grand gestures.
But with little things.
A hand offered in silence. A look that lingered. Words like "You make this world bearable" whispered under the moonlight.
And Iris—sitting alone on her cheap mattress, earbuds in, eyes stinging—felt something she had never felt before.
Warmth. Yearning. A deep ache.
This is it, she thought. This has to be love.
She listened to relationship podcasts. Scrolled through forums. People said love was supposed to feel different. Special. That you'd just know.
And when she played that route… she knew.
It wasn't about the character. Not really. It was about feeling seen. Loved. Wanted. Even if only in pixels and dialogue boxes.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
She cried more times than she could count.
In showers, bathroom stalls, stairwells, quiet corridors with broken lights. Anywhere no one could hear her.
She cried from frustration. From fear. From loneliness. From guilt.
Sometimes she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Sometimes she pressed her face into her sleeve just to muffle the sobs.
But always—always—she dried her face before going home.
Her mother never saw her break.
There were nights Iris thought about ending it. Just… quietly disappearing. No grand letter. No drama. Just silence.
But then she'd remember her mom. Remember how empty the apartment would be. How no one would be there to refill her prescriptions. To hold her hand. To smile at her on bad days.
So Iris stayed.
She kept waking up. Kept working. Kept walking forward even when everything felt wrong.
For her mom. Always for her mom.
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
The present returned like an old film reel clicking back into place.
The bell had stopped. The light had shifted. But Iris was still sitting at the edge of the bed, motionless, surrounded by soft silence.
Her fingers curled tighter in her lap.
"I wonder…" she whispered, voice barely audible, "if Mom even noticed I was gone…"
One tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn't wipe it away.
"Maybe… if I do enough good here… someone like me won't have to feel like that again."
She tried to smile.
It wavered. But it was there.
"Maybe that's enough."