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.
"Who are you?" she asked the hole.
She pushed the pen through the hole.
She folded her duvet, warm and smelling of cheap detergent. Outside, the sky was the color of a bruise turning into a peach.
She thought. Then, hesitantly, she pushed a memory into the brass plate: Age seven, hiding under her grandmother’s kitchen table during a thunderstorm, licking sugar from a broken cookie. The rain smelled like wet iron. Her grandmother hummed a song about a fox marrying a hen.