Hecate at the Crosswalk

She wears a safety vest now, the goddess of thresholds. The reflective kind that catches headlights like a halo left on too long. Her torch has become an orange traffic wand, humming faintly as she waves another half-asleep commuter through. Hecate, patron saint of hesitation, standing at the corner of Now and Almost.

Every morning she guards the same intersection—three ways out, none of them merciful. The air smells like burnt coffee and rain on asphalt. She knows the secrets of everyone waiting for the light to change: who’s about to quit their job, who’s rehearsing a goodbye, who’s hoping no one notices they’re crying behind their sunglasses. Crossroads work never ends. Humans keep inventing new ways to get lost.

When the light flickers red, she grins—teeth sharp as prophecy—and mutters, “You always think you have time.” The crosswalk signal blinks the little white figure, that anonymous soul mid-stride, eternally almost-there. Decision paralysis dressed as infrastructure.

Hecate has watched people stall at intersections since time began. She understands the holiness of the pause—the breath between before and after. To her, the hesitation is the ritual. The body twitching forward, then retreating, the heart’s stutter against the ribs. That’s where transformation hides. Not in the choice, but in the waiting.

Sometimes, if you linger long enough, she’ll lean in close and whisper something practical, like a threat or a blessing:
The light will never feel ready. Go anyway.

Behind her, the city hums—a chorus of engines, footsteps, and half-finished prayers. And somewhere between the honk of impatience and the sigh of surrender, you realize the crosswalk isn’t just a place to pass through. It’s a temple disguised as pavement, and the woman holding the traffic wand is the oldest god you’ve ever met.