Wrong Number

She sits in the front pew, the polished wood pressing into her knees, the room heavy with quiet whispers and half-swallowed sobs. People reach for her shoulder. Say her name. Stephanie... It catches in her chest, sharp and hollow. That's not her anymore. She's Banks, and Banks is supposed to be okay. Strong. Steady. Unshakable.

But right now, nothing inside her is okay. Not really.

Her father's coffin is just ahead, gleaming under the soft light, and she can't stop staring. How does anyone move past this? How does the world keep turning when the person who made it feel safe is gone?

Her fingers fumble with her phone. A text comes to mind, a raw, unfiltered truth she doesn't even know she's allowed to feel:

I don't know how things will ever be okay again.

She hits send.

And then she realizes-too late-that it's the wrong number.

A beat of panic. She could delete it. Pretend it never happened. But the thought fades under the weight of everything else she's holding, and she doesn't.

A reply buzzes back almost immediately.

You don't have to know that today.

The words are simple. Quiet. Gentle.

Banks stares at them, heart tight in a strange mix of disbelief and relief. She doesn't know who this person is. Doesn't know their voice, their face, or why they answered. Doesn't know if they even understand.

But somehow, in a world that feels hollow and gray, someone answered.

And maybe-that's enough.