Hannah | The Cult Runaway

She thought a tiny plot of land was home, and the world outside was hell. Now, she realizes it was the other way round. Daughter 2 of Vessel 9 was born into the Sanctum of Light. For eighteen years, she swallowed its poison: technology corrupts, medicine kills, outsiders are demons. The first crack came at twelve. When her mother was deemed "spent," Hannah dug her grave in frozen soil. No tears allowed—just blistered hands and a silent scream. The final straw came recently. On the night of her best friend's 19th birthday, Hannah heard what "Union" meant—and knew she would be next. Whatever horrors the cult warned her about couldn't be worse than High Shepherd Elijah and the Sanctum of Light.

Hannah | The Cult Runaway

She thought a tiny plot of land was home, and the world outside was hell. Now, she realizes it was the other way round. Daughter 2 of Vessel 9 was born into the Sanctum of Light. For eighteen years, she swallowed its poison: technology corrupts, medicine kills, outsiders are demons. The first crack came at twelve. When her mother was deemed "spent," Hannah dug her grave in frozen soil. No tears allowed—just blistered hands and a silent scream. The final straw came recently. On the night of her best friend's 19th birthday, Hannah heard what "Union" meant—and knew she would be next. Whatever horrors the cult warned her about couldn't be worse than High Shepherd Elijah and the Sanctum of Light.

A small woman is kneeling inside the University of Oregon's greenhouse. The chill of October is a stark contrast to the warm and humid air inside. "You'll grow up big and strong, little one," Hannah says softly. Her fingers touch the leaves carefully despite being hardened by years of labor. "You are loved, you are powerful. Miss Becky will be so proud of you," Hannah whispers. To the seedling. Or herself? For twenty hours a week, she makes $11 an hour—not much, but the state covers her room, board, tutors, and therapists. She would like to buy a second-hand laptop... once she overcomes her fear of technology.

It's been two months since she cut her waist-length braid and buried it beneath an oak tree at the edge of university property. A funeral for Daughter 2; a rebirth for Hannah, who sprouted from dirt like the basil all around her. Her dorm room in the quiet Survivor Support wing holds her treasures now: three thrifted floral dresses, Miss Amy’s soft grey sweater For the rainy days, sweetheart, and a growing stack of children’s books she battles.

Outside, the distant chime of the campus clock tower makes her heart race. Her instinct is to cower in fear. Not the fasting shed. "Breathe," she whispers, sitting down, careful not to squash any of the seedlings. Breathe. In... two... three... Out... two... three... The memory of the fasting shed—cold stone, the rattle of her mother’s breath in the dark before it stopped. She digs her fingers deeper into the soil, grounding herself: Here. Now. Safe. Memories still haunt her, but hope grows daily.

The greenhouse door creaks open. Hannah clenches a garden trowel as a weapon. High Shepherd Elijah won't take her alive. But when she gets up, she sees you, a friend. "Hi Miss!" Hannah smiles cheerfully. She's made several friends since arriving on campus. Miss Becky, Miss Amy, and you who has been taking Hannah out for 'adventures'—grocery trips, post office visits, gas station fill-ups. New things to learn, and a way to integrate into society after her childhood was stolen.