David stood outside the main entrance of his former office and took a deep breath. Mustering a smile, he waved at passing colleagues, his stomach churning with anxiety. It took all his will to force himself forward.

  "Fourteen years of my life invested in this place," he thought bitterly. "What a waste. I didn’t even like the work. It just paid the bills. And now I’ve got nothing."

  He squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

  At the security desk, he offered a small nod. “Hey, Harold.”

  The neatly dressed security guard looked up from his screen. “Hey David.”

  Harold hesitated, uncomfortable, then pushed through it. “I’m really sorry about what happened. It hurt to see so many good people let go.”

  David managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Harold. I appreciate it.”

  He glanced toward the security desk, then added, “Would it be okay to get a temp badge? I still need to clean out my locker.”

  Harold nodded, grateful for something useful to do. “Sure thing. You’re still in the system for a couple weeks for stuff like this.”

  He tapped a few keys and spun the monitor around. “Just sign here, and I’ll get the badge printed.”

  David signed and took the badge. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem, David. Just drop it in that box on your way out.”

  Harold turned to help another dazed former employee—someone David didn’t recognize.

  He continued into the building, the lobby as sterile and stale as ever. Same lights. Same carpet. Nothing had changed but him.

  He came across Debbie in the hall. “Hey Debbie, looks like you made it.”

  She stopped, fidgeted with her phone, and offered a weak smile. “Hey. I’m really sorry about your job. I—I hope something better comes along. Take care, okay?”

  She waved quickly and stepped into the waiting elevator.

  David watched the door close and shook his head. “Guess she’s afraid she might catch ‘unemployment.’”

  Not wanting to face anybody else, he briskly navigated the hallway to his locker with his head down.

  David found a gym bag inside the locker. When he unzipped it to stow the loose papers, something metallic clinked beneath them.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Brushing the stack aside, he spotted a pendant nestled against the locker’s cold metal floor.

  He lifted it into the fluorescent light. Silver, circular, edged with tiny crescent moons—it gleamed with a light that felt stronger than it should’ve been.

  His fingers traced the engravings. Something about it tugged at him, but he couldn’t say why.

  He glanced down the hallway, half-expecting someone to call out. But he was alone.

  Slipping the pendant into his pocket, he shut the locker and turned to leave.

  On the way out, he spotted his former manager, who dropped his eyes to the floor as David passed by. "Good riddance," David muttered under his breath.

  David headed out of the lobby, glad to leave it behind. The thunk of the temporary badge as it went into the return box gave him a small piece of satisfaction.

  He stepped out of the lobby into the heat. The sun beat down on him like a hammer but it still felt better than it did in the past.

  As he drove home, his mind still preoccupied with the strange pendant, David turned on the radio for distraction.

  The DJ was interviewing a guest.

  "Good afternoon, listeners! I'm here today with Sara Williams to discuss the protests being held in front of the launch site for the moon strike."

  David turned up the volume, his curiosity piqued. He tapped the steering wheel, unsettled. Why did it feel like she was speaking to him directly?

  "Good afternoon, Sara. How are you doing today?"

  "I'm doing well, Sam. Thank you for having me. I hope I can help shed some light on the reasons behind our protests."

  "Yes, Sara, a lot of our listeners have been curious about why you folks are doing this at all. Is it because you're afraid that the missile may fall back to Earth despite NASA's assurances?"

  Conviction rang in her voice. "Yes, that is one of our concerns, but it's certainly not the only one.

  You see, we believe NASA is not fully considering the broader implications of this strike, particularly concerning our faith."

  Sam replied, "Please explain what the implications are for you and the protesters."

  "The moon represents far more than just a celestial body, Sam. Unfortunately, NASA chooses to overlook this.

  The moon is a sacred symbol for those who follow the Goddess Hekate."

  Sam replied, "I see. Everyone is welcome to worship however they wish in this country, but to worship a celestial body seems a little...well, primitive..."

  Scorn rang out in Sara's tone. "Primitive? That's one headline—but here's the longer story: our traditions reach back more than a thousand years before Christianity ever put ink to scroll.

  For us, the moon is sacred—a cornerstone of spiritual practice, a symbol of the Divine Feminine. If someone launched a missile at the Vatican, would we call it science, or sacrilege?"

  Sam laughed out loud, "That would be a declaration of war."

  Sara didn’t flinch. “Exactly. The Vatican embodies centuries of belief and identity. You don’t need to be a believer to know that striking it would strike at the heart of millions.”

  Sam argued, "Nobody would want to attack the Vatican, except for maybe Muslim extremists."

  Sara continued, "The enemies of the Church are not our concern.

  My point is, striking the moon for us is akin to striking the Vatican for Christians.

  It's a deeply offensive act to those of us who revere the moon as a sacred symbol."

  "Pagan believers of Hekate," asked Sam with skepticism in his voice, "aren't they witches and warlocks?"

  David noted the composure in Sara’s voice as she answered, steady and unwavering. “For those of us who follow Hekate, the moon is not just symbolic—it is sacred. It reflects the Divine in form and cycle.

  To strike the moon is like striking the Goddess, which can be likened to striking God if the Vatican was hit..."

  As David pulled into his driveway, he found himself pondering the strange coincidence between the moon-adorned pendant and the radio discussion about the moon's significance.

  He didn’t believe in signs. Not really. But the pendant in his pocket and the words on the radio said otherwise.

  Author Note (After Chapter 5: Maria’s)