Chapter 1
The ceiling remains constant.
Each Sunday morning, Angela gazes up at it, the same chipped spot near the corner, the sluggish swirl of plaster resembling a slumbering face, the subtle water stain that looks like a map of nowhere. A place that doesn’t exist. A place she could disappear to.
Her tiny hands rest in her lap, fingers softly curled inward. Her feet dangle above the church floor, not quite touching the ground. The sanctuary hums with voices vocalizing, murmuring, supplicating but none of them reach her. Not really.
In Angela’s world, there exists a silence louder than any sermon.
She stares at the ceiling as if it’s trying to whisper something to her, as if it holds a secret only, she can understand. A portal, maybe. If she stares long enough, hard enough, maybe it will let her in.
“Angela.”
A voice. Soft. Gentle. She blinks the ceiling fades, like fog lifting from a windowpane.
“Angela.” A hand touches her shoulder. It’s her aunt, seated beside her, eyes concerned but restrained. Angela nods quickly and stands, brushing her skirt with trembling fingers.
As she walks to the front of the church, the ceiling stays behind, watching. Always watching.
A Couple of Years Ago…
“Angela!”
Her mother’s voice shattered the stillness of the house, slicing through it like a whip. Angela didn’t respond. She was upstairs, lying on her back, once again tracing invisible lines across the bedroom ceiling. Her safe place. Her only quiet.
“Angela!” Louder. Sharper. Full of the same rage that never needed a reason.
Angela jerked upright, heart pounding like a warning drum. She scrambled off the bed, bare feet slapping against the cold tile as she rushed downstairs.
Her mother stood in the kitchen, arms folded tightly, her mouth twisted with fury. A half-broken plate lay in the sink, dirty water still clinging to its edges.
“I’ve been calling you! Are you deaf?”
Angela paused. The irony stung.
Partially, yes. In one ear. But she couldn’t say that.
“I—I didn’t hear” she mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor.
The slap came quickly. She didn’t cry. She had trained herself not to.
“Don’t stand there acting like you’re dumb. The dishes! Go and wash them! Or I’ll give you something real to cry about!”
Angela turned to the sink, eyes glassy. The water was murky. The sponge smelled like mold. The silence inside her head was louder than anything her mother could scream.
Behind her, her mother continued to mutter about laziness, ungrateful children, how nothing in the house worked the way it should. The TV murmured in the living room. Somewhere upstairs, a clock ticked on and on.
Her dad wasn’t home. Again.
He rarely was.
He left early and returned late. Sometimes, Angela would hear the garage door open past midnight. His footsteps heavy. His voice tired and low. If he acknowledged her at all, it was with an unfocused nod. No hugs. No conversations.
The only true sign of his presence was the scent of his cologne lingering in the hallway and the sound of business calls echoing behind closed doors.
Angela knew he didn’t love her mother. Not in the way people talked about love in church, or books, or films. Their marriage felt like two people inhabiting the same house, sharing space but not lives. A contract with no connection.
On most days, they barely spoke.
And when they did, it was to fight.
And in the middle, Angela.
Eleven years old. Too small to be heard. Too tired to speak.
The sponge slipped from her hand. The sink clattered with a cracked plate. Not broken, just loud.
Her mother turned sharply. “Do you see yourself?!”
Angela stood still.
Her mother raised her hand again then stopped. Her breathing was heavy.
“Clear those plates,” she whispered. “And don’t eat tonight.”
Angela bit her lip and nodded. Her stomach twisted, but she kept scrubbing.
That evening, she sat alone in her room, wrapped in a thin blanket. Her little notebook lay open beside her pillow—pages filled with dreams she never spoke aloud.
Someday, I’ll have a room with a window and a bookshelf.
I’ll cook my own food, and no one will yell.
I’ll be happy. I’ll be present.
She didn’t write anything new that night.
Just stared at the ceiling.
The same ceiling as always.
But in her mind, she painted stars on it.
