SHE YEARNED FOR WHAT IS FAITH
ALM No.91, July 2026
SHORT STORIES
The chair creaked before she even sat in it, loud enough to echo off the walls lined with wooden crosses.
Mona lowered herself slowly, her knees brushing the carved armrests, her palms damp against the polished wood, beneath the extremely uncomfortable cloth. The room smelled of candle smoke and varnish, though no candles burned. A single window let in a thin slice of morning light that cut across her shirt – crisp, high-necked, spotless, the one she wore when she needed to look like she had answers.
A figure leaned in the doorway.
“You came back,” they said.
Mona’s fingers tightened around the chair’s arms. “I didn't have anywhere else to go.”
“That’s not true.” The figure stepped inside, their boots tapping against the wooden floor. “You chose this room.”
Mona’s gaze flicked to the wall. Dozens of crosses hung there – some metal, wooden crosses, some crooked, some straight. They caught the light in uneven glints.
“I didn’t choose anything,” she said.
“You never do.” The figure brushed dust from one of the crosses. “That’s your thing.’
Mona shifted in the chair. The wood groaned beneath her. “I’m trying.”
“You’re avoiding.”
“I’m trying,” she repeated, her voice thin.
The figure turned toward her. Their face stayed in shadow, but the light caught their hands – chipped nail polish, the same pale shade she wore. Their sleeves matched her too, the same fabric, the same neat stitching.
“You’re here because you want something,” they said.
Mona swallowed. “I want... I want to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Faith.”
The figure raised an eyebrow. “Faith in what?”
Mona’s breath hitched. “Anything.”
The figure stepped closer, their boots stopping just inches from her feet. “You do not need faith. You need courage.”
“I have courage.”
“You don’t.” The figure tapped the chairs armrest.
“You sit. You wait. You hope someone else will tell you what to believe.”
Mona’s grip tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
The windows light shifted, sliding across the crosses. Shadows stretched long and thin across the floor.
“You came here yesterday,” the figure said. “And the day before. And the day before that.”
Mona’s jaw clenched. “I needed quiet.”
“You needed permission.”
Mona’s eyes darted to the largest cross on the wall – a heavy wooden one with a crack down the center. The light hit it just right, making the crack glow like a thin white scar.
“I don’t know what I'm supposed to do,” she whispered.
“You do.” The figure crouched so their eyes aligned with hers. “You just don’t trust yourself.”
Mona’s breath trembled. “I’m trying.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
The figure leaned in. “Then prove it.”
Mona’s hands slipped from the armrests. Her finger hovered in her lap, trembling.
“Stand up,” the figure said.
Mona did not move.
“Stand up,” they repeated.
Her legs twitched. The chair creaked again, louder this time.
“You’re afraid,” the figure said. “Afraid of choosing. Afrid of being wrong. Afraid of stepping out of this room.
Mona’s eyes lifted to the crosses. The light shimmered across them, making them look like they were breathing.
“I want faith,” she said.
“Then stand.”
Mona pushed against the armrests. Her knees shook. The chair groaned. Inch by inch, she rose.
The figure stepped back.
Mona stood fully now, the morning light washing over her, her shadow stretching long across the floor – a single silhouette framed by a wall of crosses, her reflection faintly visible in the polished wood of the chair she finally left behind.
Crystal Bailey is an introverted entrepreneur-writer rooted in small-town quiet, where her stories grow with the same care she gives her garden. She writes from instinct and emotion, shaping fiction that reflects her inner landscape. A devoted crafter and lifelong creative, she hopes to one day write a children’s book that blends whimsy, heart, and the gentle magic she finds in everyday life.
Subscribe to FREE digital flip copy of the Adelaide Magazine printed edition.