Gloryhole Xia

Xia blinked. Her eyes were wet. She hadn't cried in four years, not since her mother’s funeral.

The hole hummed back. Then, a new story flowed out: gloryhole xia

Xia pulled her hand back. The brass plate was warm. Her grandmother’s song, which she’d thought lost forever, was now part of a ghost story in Prague. Xia blinked

She didn't know if the hole was a ghost, a god, or just a lonely person on the other side of a wall. The hole hummed back

There, behind a poorly patched hole in the drywall, was a new addition. A brass plate, no bigger than a credit card, gleamed under the weak light. It read: Gloryhole Xia. Push for a story.

She stood up. The laundromat was still empty. The brass plate was gone—just a rough, old hole in the drywall, filled with dust and lint.

"Again," she whispered.