Jennifer nodded, feeling something strange in her chest. It wasn’t exactly hope—she had forgotten how to feel hope—but it was something.
That night, Jennifer held the rosary for the first time with real intention. She didn’t pray out loud. She no longer knew the right words. But her lips moved in whispers, saying things she didn’t even know she was thinking.
“I don’t know if you’re listening. I don’t know if you exist. But Emily believes in you, and I just need peace.”
It was the most honest prayer Jennifer had ever made in her entire life.
The next morning arrived cold, November in its worst mood. At exactly nine, Donna appeared. “Ready?”
Jennifer nodded. They walked through the corridors. The chapel was small. Eight rows of simple wooden pews, a modest altar in the front, and behind the altar, on a stone base, a statue of the Virgin Mary. It wasn’t large, maybe one meter tall. Made of hand-painted plaster, Mary with a blue mantle, hands extended, serene expression. It had been there for decades. The paint faded in some places, a few small cracks. But still beautiful. In that moment, to Jennifer, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Fifteen minutes,” Donna said softly. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
The door closed. Jennifer was alone. She walked slowly to the first pew, sat down, and looked at the image. She didn’t know what to do. How do you pray after so long? How do you ask for anything when you had stopped asking years ago? So she just sat there in silence, watching, the rosary beads between her fingers, their weight comforting in some way.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jennifer finally whispered. “I don’t know how to pray anymore. I don’t know anything anymore.”
Her hands were trembling. Tears began to fall—silent, steady.
“I’m not asking you to save me. I’m not asking for a miracle. I’m just asking: help me not be afraid.”
Jennifer lowered her head, closed her eyes, and for the first time in six years, she truly prayed. The fifteen minutes passed far too quickly. Donna knocked gently on the door.
“Jennifer.”
Jennifer wiped her face, stood up, and looked one last time at the image of the Virgin Mary. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She returned to the cell in silence. That night—the last night—Jennifer couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t fear, not anymore. There was a strange calm inside her now. As if something had settled in her chest during those fifteen minutes in the chapel.
It was two in the morning when it happened. Jennifer was lying down, staring at the ceiling, the rosary in her hands. Suddenly, the temperature in the cell changed. It didn’t get cold. It became warm, a gentle, comforting warmth, like when you sit near a fireplace on a cold day—a warmth that embraces you.
Jennifer sat up in bed, confused, and then she saw the light. It wasn’t like the prison lights, those harsh cold fluorescents. It was soft, golden, like candlelight, but brighter. It came from the corner of the cell. Jennifer blinked, rubbed her eyes. Surely she was dreaming; surely exhaustion and fear were making her mind play tricks on her. But when she opened her eyes again, the light was still there, and inside the light, Jennifer stopped breathing.
A woman, standing in the corner of the cell. Real. Not a shadow, not an illusion. Long white dress, blue mantle over her shoulders. Her face—oh, that face! Jennifer had never seen so much kindness in a human face, so much peace, so much love.
The woman didn’t say anything. She just looked at Jennifer, and Jennifer understood—not with words. She was saying: You are not alone.
Jennifer couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She just stared. The woman extended her hands, not to touch. She didn’t step closer, but the gesture was clear. It was a welcome. It was an invitation. It was love, pure and unconditional.
And then Jennifer felt it: a scent. Flowers. Roses. Intense, as if someone had filled the cell with hundreds of fresh roses. But there were no roses, no flowers, only that woman, that light, that impossible scent. Jennifer began to cry. It was as if six years of pain, of anger, of emptiness were being washed away; as if someone had taken all the weight she carried and simply lifted it off her shoulders.
The woman smiled, a smile so soft, so gentle, that Jennifer felt her heart warm in a way she hadn’t felt since before all of this began.
“Thank you, Virgin Mary,” Jennifer whispered through her tears. “Thank you for coming.”..
