Xia blinked. Her eyes were wet. She hadn't cried in four years, not since her mother’s funeral.
"Again," she whispered.
The whisper softened. "I am the in-between. The forgotten listener. Every laundromat, every bus station, every hospital waiting room at 3 AM—I am there. People push their loneliness through small holes. Coins, yes. But also secrets. Also the crumbs of their lives. I give back stories. Not answers. Stories. Because stories are the only thing that makes the waiting bearable." gloryhole xia
The hole hummed back. Then, a new story flowed out:
A long pause. Then a story, the softest one yet: Xia blinked
Xia’s hand trembled. She pulled the pen back. It was now engraved with two words: You’re enough.
The fluorescent lights of the "Sunset Mirage" laundromat flickered like dying fireflies. It was 2:17 AM, and Xia was the only soul in the place. She sat on a cracked plastic chair, watching her duvet tumble in dryer number four, when her eyes drifted to the back wall. "Again," she whispered
"Who are you?" she asked the hole.