The morning sun filtered through pale curtains in the Smith household, casting strips of light across the breakfast table. The quiet hum of a neighborhood just waking was interrupted by the scrape of a chair as Coonie sat across from his mother. He looked pale but composed, his fingers tapping against the wooden surface.
Korre Smith, radiant with a kind of fragile hope, poured orange juice into two glasses. She turned to him with a smile that felt too bright, too desperate to be entirely natural.
"Mom," Coonie began, his tone deliberate, "I… I want to go with you. To the church. You know, the one you've always talked about."
For a second, silence clung to the air. The glass pitcher nearly slipped from her hands. Then her face lit up with unrestrained joy, eyes shimmering with relief.
