The sound of something shattering caught my attention, and I startled back to reality.
My head whipped over to the source of the sound, and there I saw Talia, on her knees, cleaning up one of her clay figurines. It had fallen on the tiled floor and broken. The little figurine, which was once identical to a deep-sea whale, was now cracked into pieces.
I pushed my book aside and got down onto the floor with her, helping her collect all the little fragments that had broken off. I chanced a glance at Talia’s down-turned face, and watched a single, quiet tear drop from her cheek to the floor.
“I’m sorry. It was beautiful.”
I knew I’d made a vow not to get attached to anyone, but Talia made it hard. She was like a ray of caged sunlight in this underground pit of darkness. I wanted to help her, even if I didn’t know how.
“Do you think we can glue it?”
“Maybe. My mama made it for me.”
“You didn’t make it here?” I asked.
“Not that one.”
She shook her head and then rubbed away the moisture on her cheek.
“I have something at home that’s similar,” I admitted.
Talia looked up at me in response, eyes glistening and curious.
“It was a necklace. I never wear it. I keep it in a dresser drawer back home because I’m too scared to break it.” My eyes widened with the realization of what I’d just said. “I’m sure we can fix your whale, though.”
“It’s alright.”
I handed her one of the larger shards I’d picked up, and she took it gently. Even though the item was broken, no doubt beyond repair, she still handled it with care.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
“Do you think the gods listen to our prayers?”
I blinked, surprised by the shift in conversation.
“Sometimes,” I offered. “I think they’re probably too busy to hear every prayer, though. I think only the loud, important ones get through to them.”
“I don’t think they can hear mine,” she confided.
“I don’t think they can hear mine either.”
I reached my hand over and placed it atop hers. Then, I gently squeezed her hand to let her know she wasn’t alone. Even though I knew we both felt the solitude keenly.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I dream I’m back home, painting.” She paused. “Maybe the gods don’t hear my prayers because I’m being selfish.”
“Praying that you get to go home is not selfish. Having hope is important. It’s easy to lose, and hard to regain.”
Talia didn’t respond. She just looked at the pieces of the whale in her hands like they were sacred, like something worth keeping even if they could never be whole again.
I stayed beside her, cold floor pressing into my knees, and said nothing more. There was nothing else to say.
We were both holding onto things—some shattered, some still hidden in drawers.
And maybe the gods weren’t listening.
But we were.
