The care home smells of polish and overcooked vegetables. Photographs line the walls— faces once fierce, now softened by forgetting. A woman says hello. Neither of us knows her name, but the God of the covenant does not forget— her name penned in the Book of Life. Later— the detention centre. Fluorescent light. Locked doors. Lives paused between borders. Someone asks how long this will last. No one knows. Names become numbers, processed into stats that serve political interes

I walk the path through the woods because I cannot stay still. Mud darkens the cuffs of my trousers, my hands are cold in my pockets, the ground yielding beneath each step. My eyes sting— tears arriving without warning, without a name. I stop. Try to pray. Nothing comes. No words. Only breath. In and out— cold air filling my lungs, fogging briefly before it disappears. And into the quiet I whisper the next line of the Creed: I believe in the Holy Spirit. The words feel thin t