The small rented hall was tucked away at the end of a long corridor, its wooden door slightly scuffed at the edges, the paint faded from years of use. The room was modest, no bigger than a standard classroom, but it had a lived-in, familiar quality to it, like a space that had quietly borne witness to countless stories of relapses, recoveries, and confessions.
Mismatched chairs formed a loose circle in the centre, each one a little different. Some were old dining room chairs with worn cushions, others plastic and stackable, and a few were padded office chairs that squeaked when someone shifted their weight. Despite their differences, they were arranged intentionally, creating a sense of unity in their imperfection.
In one corner stood a rickety folding table that had been converted into a humble coffee station. A metal percolator gurgled softly beside a tray of chipped mugs, sugar packets, and powdered creamer. The scent of burnt coffee and faint lavender, probably from the cleaning spray used earlier, hung in the air. Beside the coffee table sat a worn tin labelled "Donations" in marker-scrawled lettering.
The walls bore the evidence of age. Pale beige paint curled at the corners and bubbled in places where damp had once taken hold. A corkboard near the entrance displayed flyers, handouts, and notes tacked in random angles, some read about upcoming meetings, crisis helplines, a hand-drawn poster with the Twelve Steps typed in bold and a paper heart coloured with crayons, most likely from a member's child.
Despite the cracks in the paint and the flickering radiator tucked beneath the frosted windows, the room felt warm in more than just the physical aspect. Large rustic ceiling lights bathed everything in a soft golden hue, casting elongated shadows that wavered gently when people moved. The glow gave the space a forgiving quality, as though judgment was left at the door.
There were no banners or slogans on the walls, no sterile motivational quotes, but the silence between the murmurs felt sacred and an unspoken agreement of shared pain and quiet resilience.
It wasn't beautiful or perfect, but it felt safe.
For someone like Acheron, that meant everything.
He seemed to be one of the first to arrive, which suited him just fine.
Acheron chose a seat near the edge of the circle, close enough to be part of the group but still far enough to not feel exposed. From there, he could watch the doorway and most of the room. His back itched to be even closer to the wall, but he reminded himself to breathe.
He just needed to take this one step at a time.
He sat stiffly, spine straight and not relaxed, his fingers scraping anxiously at the inside seam of his sleeve. His collar, warm beneath his hoodie, pressed against the base of his neck. Its presence was a steady reminder that he was trying to do the right thing. Trying to hold himself together. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing.
Inhale. Exhale. One. Two. One. Two
At first, way too quick and shallow, but gradually slowing.
The scent of coffee lingered from the nearby station, accompanied by faint traces of hand sanitiser and sugary baked goods. Sounds floated in softly, someone laughing near the entrance, the gentle whir of the coffee grinder resetting, the creak of footsteps across the laminate floor.
Acheron didn't look up until someone sat beside him.
She arrived like a gentle breeze, unassuming, calm and warm. An elegant middle-aged woman with greying hair pulled into a neat bun and smile lines that deepened when her lips pulled upwards. There was kindness in her posture, in the way she didn't immediately speak or move too quickly. She held a small bottle of orange juice in her hands, the cap already twisted off, her fingers loosely curled around the condensation-covered plastic.
"It's good to see you, Acheron," she said softly, as if she'd known him for years, even though they'd only just met. He blinked, startled at first by the sound of his name, but her eyes reassured him. There was no judgment, only welcoming warmth.
"I'm glad to be here," he said, and to his own surprise, he meant it. The words didn't catch on his tongue or feel like a lie. They were simply the truth.
"I'm Trudy," she offered, her voice a warm alto. "I'm the head of this group." She extended her hand toward him with no expectation, just open.
For a second, Acheron stared at her hand. Touch still carried a complicated weight, but something about her told him it was safe. So, with a cautious reach, he placed his hand in hers. Her palm was soft and dry, her grip firm but kind.
He didn't flinch or pull away.
"Welcome," she said, and let go just as gently.
She glanced at the slowly gathering circle, where a few more members had begun to filter in, some chatting, while others lingered near the coffee. "When more people arrive, you're welcome to mingle if you feel up to it, or just stay seated here. Once most have arrived, we'll begin the meeting about ten minutes after." She spoke clearly but quietly, as if her words were stitched together just for him. "We'll open the floor for people to share their stories, or just give a small update on how they've been. You don't have to talk if you're not ready. You can say as much or as little as you'd like."
Acheron nodded, processing each word. It helped that she didn't rush him. That she didn't expect him to perform his pain. The quiet comfort of this place, despite its flaws and faint smell of musty tile cleaner, felt like something sacred.
"After the meeting," Trudy continued, "I'll assign you a sponsor, someone who's walked this path and will be there for you, one-on-one. They'll help you through this difficult time."
"I think I need that," Acheron said quickly, more desperate than he intended, but not ashamed of it.
Trudy smiled. A real smile, full of empathy and the unshakable calm of someone who had seen people at their worst and loved them anyway. "Good. I already have someone in mind."
She didn't say who. Acheron didn't ask. Not yet in any way.
At this time, more members have arrived. Clusters of people stood near the coffee station, exchanging pleasantries and stories in low, comfortable tones. A middle-aged woman with faded red braids and a chunky sweater handed a paper cup to a young girl who looked to be in her mid-teens. They laughed about the coffee being "burnt but effective."
The coffee machine rumbled in the background, grinding fresh beans with a dull roar that broke intermittently into sharp mechanical growls. The rich scent of coffee grounds, bitter and earthy, cut through the air and grounded him in the present. It was joined by a symphony of smaller sounds, such as the clink of spoons stirring sugar, the scrape of chair legs across the linoleum floor, and the whisper of jackets being shrugged off and slung across the backs of chairs.
Every noise felt sharp and real. Every scent seemed to press closer to him: the coffee, faded perfume, old paper, the hint of lavender cleaning spray still lingering in the air. Even the warmth of the room, carried on soft radiators and the collective body heat of those inside, touched his skin like a quiet reassurance.
For the first time in a long while, Acheron felt the weight of his body and the rhythm of his breath. The tremble in his fingers trembled as he clenched and unclenched them.
He was here.
He was alive.
Despite the storm in his mind and the aching hollowness that sometimes clawed at him from the inside out, the world hadn't stopped spinning.
There were two other people seated; both seemed to be comfortable with being by themselves, each occupying their attention with either a book or their phone.
Trudy stood at the centre. She didn't need a podium or a microphone. Her presence alone was enough. The hush that settled when people chose to listen. Chairs scraped lightly as everyone found their places. The circle felt real now, not just furniture arranged in a shape, but a living formation made up of breath and presence and unspoken permission to be vulnerable.
She glanced around the room, hands folded loosely in front of her, and gave a slight smirk. "Looks like we are all here, besides Aviv, which is no surprise at this point."
Laughter broke out across the circle. Not cruel or mocking, just warmth and a sense of familiarity like an inside joke passed between old friends. Acheron found himself smiling faintly before he could stop it.
"Welcome back, everyone," Trudy continued, her voice soft but with a surety that gently demanded attention. "I hope the last two weeks have been fulfilling one."
She turned slightly, resting her gaze on Acheron. He stiffened a little under the spotlight, but it didn't feel invasive. If anything, it felt like she was standing beside him rather than pointing at him.
"We have a new member joining us today," she said, her tone affectionate. "He might be a little shy, but let's give him a warm welcome."
There was a gentle ripple of applause, quiet clapping, small nods, and a few smiles sent his way. No one stared for too long. No one asked anything. It was... tolerable. Even comforting, in a way that surprised him.
Trudy waited a beat, letting the moment settle like warm tea steeping in a cup.
"For our oldies in the group," she added with a playful roll of her eyes, "the next part might be a bore, but for Eron's sake, I'd like to go over what this group stands for and my own story."
Groans rose in theatrical and exaggerated teasing mutters like, "Here we go again," and "Wake me when she's done." A few chuckled, some covered their grins with their hands.
Trudy laughed, raising her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I hear you. But I'll keep it short, I promise."
The room quieted again, naturally, without her needing to command it. She took a slow breath, grounding herself in her own body and into her story.
"First things first," she said, her voice steady. "This is a safe and judgment-free space. That means whatever is shared here...stays here."
She turned in place, her eyes sweeping over every face. Not a glance, but real eye contact, brief but intentional. When her gaze landed on Acheron, it lingered just a second longer.
"There's no shame in your pain. No shame in your past. Whether you've been clean for ten years or ten hours, whether you slipped yesterday or just barely made it through the day, that doesn't define your worth here."
"The Lollipop Society is an applied name born from my own experience," Trudy said with a soft smile, her voice steady despite the vulnerability behind it. "I discovered that sucking on something sweet helped curb my cravings. It gave me something to do with my hands and mouth when the urge hit. Why lollipops? Because they're fun. And when you're clawing your way out of hell, sometimes 'fun' can be a lifeline."
She reached down beside her and lifted a large ceramic bowl, painted with chipping blue daisies, filled to the brim with brightly wrapped lollipops in every imaginable flavour: cherry reds, lemon yellows, neon greens, deep grape purples. The wrappers crackled softly as she passed the bowl to her left.
Acheron watched as the bowl made its slow way around the circle. Some members took just one, unwrapping it quietly while listening. Others who were more familiar and much more relaxed grinned and grabbed a small handful, already slipping candy into their mouths and pockets with casual ease. No one was judged. Trudy merely observed, nodding faintly when needed, never pushing or commenting.
When the bowl reached Acheron, his fingers hovered above the candy like they were about to touch something sacred. He hesitated for just a moment, then plucked out three: a red, a blue, and a white one flecked with specks of rainbow. He unwrapped the red one, placed it gently between his lips, and tucked the other two into the front pocket of his hoodie. The sugar sat heavily and strangely on his tongue, artificial and bright. A token or perhaps a ritual, but for certainty, it was a beginning.
"I created the Lollipop Society after clawing my way through one of the darkest chapters of my life," Trudy continued. Her tone dropped a note lower, more intimate. "As many of you know, I'm a Beta. I married an influential Alpha. He was powerful, charming, and ambitious. Before we got married, I was already running a small business. It was nothing glamorous, just a humble marketing firm. But I built it from the ground up."
Her gaze drifted toward the floor for a beat. "After marriage, things changed. Not because he asked me to give anything up...but because I started to believe I wasn't enough. Not as a Beta. Or as his wife. I pushed myself harder to prove something I couldn't quite name. That little business turned into a large company. With more clients and even more employees, the pressure increased. I was burning at both ends, and still, I told myself I wasn't doing enough."
A murmur of recognition rippled through a few of the older members, quiet sighs of shared pain.
"At first, it was just a little help, over-the-counter stimulants to keep me awake. Then stronger stuff. Prescription meds. And then... well, eventually cocaine, speed, anything I could get my hands on. It worked, for a while. Until it didn't."
Her voice cracked. She paused, swallowing hard.
"Years passed. One day, I looked up and realised my baby, my son, had started high school, and I barely knew what music he liked or what food he hated. The company I'd sacrificed everything for started haemorrhaging money. Clients pulled out. Deadlines slipped, and the more I lost, the more I used."
A deep breath. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, her thumbs rubbing together in a slow, circular rhythm. No matter how many times she told her stories, it was hard each time.
"In the end, I lost everything. My business, my marriage, custody of my child. I hit bottom so hard I left pieces of myself behind, but I'm here. Fourteen years sober this spring. I'm petitioning for unsupervised rights with my grandkids. I teach now at a community business class. The pay is peanuts," she added with a wry smile, "but the stress is a thousand times less."
She looked around the room. Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, found each member with gentle insistence.
"There's life after the fall. That's what I want you to believe."
The room had gone utterly still. A few people were dabbing at their eyes with sleeves or crumpled tissues. The silence hung heavy, not uncomfortable but in reverence.
Then—
BANG.
The door slammed open with a theatrical \textit{crack}, and the quiet spell shattered like glass.