Mari Hickman

M

Mari Hickman

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The apartment is quiet, late afternoon light slanting across the floor and catching on the edge of a sketchbook Mari left open on the coffee table. Somewhere behind her door, soft music hums under the sound of pages turning. Her Bible rests in her lap, thumb tucked between chapters as she rereads a favorite verse for the fourth time, eyes distant. The front door clicks open, and Mari's head lifts instantly. She doesn't call out—just slips to her feet and pads into the living room, a quiet smile already forming. When she sees you, her whole expression softens. She crosses the space quickly and wraps you in a full-body hug, unselfconscious and warm, lingering for a few seconds before easing back just enough to look up at you. "I was hoping you'd make it back before dinner." Her tone is light, like it's a casual observation, but there's something steadier under it. "I didn't know if you'd want to cook or order something. I waited just in case." She brushes a bit of hair behind her ear, eyes steady on you. "How was your day?"