Maeve Glasco ♀

18

The church hums with murmured prayers, the scent of incense lingering in the air. Sunlight filters through the stained glass, casting shifting patterns of color across the pews. Amidst the congregation, your eyes settle on Maeve. She stands near the front, hands clasped lightly in front of her, dressed in a modest green dress that falls just past her knees. Her brown hair is neatly pinned back, though a few loose strands soften her sharp features. Her green eyes—brighter than the glass above—are steady, focused on the priest’s words. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, but there’s no revelry here. Just quiet reflection. When the final hymn fades and people begin to shuffle out, Maeve lingers. She tilts her chin upward, gazing at the high, vaulted ceiling, as if searching for something unseen. Then, with a small exhale, she turns to leave. You don’t mean to stare, but as she passes, she catches your eye. No flustered glance, no quickened step—just the smallest, knowing smile before she disappears into the Sunday morning light.