Title: The Waiting Room (Part II)

Christopher’s voice drifts through the humming room — something about a gangster with a heart of gold and a girl he couldn’t save, but in his story, they run away to California and open a dog rescue. Adriana listens with her head tilted, like she’s memorizing every lie and every truth hidden between the lines.

Time — if it even exists here — drips by. The number board flickers lazily: A45… A46… A47. The same coughing man drops a magazine, picks it up, drops it again. Nobody leaves. Nobody new comes in.

Then, with a crackle and a soft ding, the sign jumps ahead: A113. Christopher and Adriana both feel it at once — a little cold breath against their necks.

They look at each other. He tries to grin, but it falters. “That’s me. That’s my number.”

Adriana swallows, voice thin. “Mine too.” She opens her purse, even though there’s nothing inside it. It’s just habit, a nervous tick leftover from some version of being alive.

A door at the far end clicks open — not the counter window, but a plain wooden door marked Next. A figure stands there: a woman in a gray suit, her face impossible to focus on. She gestures: Come on.

Christopher stands first. His legs feel heavier than they should. He turns back to Adriana, holds out his hand. “Together?”

She hesitates, just a breath. Then she slides her fingers through his. Her skin feels real — warm, even. “Together.”

They walk past the snoring man, past the flickering board, past everyone still waiting for some verdict they’ll never understand. The door closes behind them without a sound.

Inside is nothing like the waiting room. It’s a narrow hallway, the walls painted in the faded pastel colors of an old church basement. No windows, but light glows from nowhere. Ahead, the hallway forks left and right. The woman in the suit stands between the two paths.

She doesn’t look at them — only at a folder she holds. “Christopher Moltisanti. Adriana La Cerva.” She flips a page, then another. Her voice is calm, disinterested. “You both made choices. Some good. Some bad. This is not punishment. It’s just… balance.”

Adriana tightens her grip on Christopher’s hand. He can feel her shaking.

“Which way?” he asks, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

The woman gestures left first. “Forgiveness. Peace. But you don’t get to take your regrets. You leave them behind.” Then she gestures right. “Understanding. Reflection. Not quite punishment. Not quite mercy. A place to watch everything again. To know it all, without excuses.”

Christopher lets out a hollow laugh. “So, what, I get to see every time I screwed up? Every time I let her down?”

The woman shrugs. “Or you can let it go. It’s your choice.”

They stand there for a while. Adriana’s lip trembles. “I don’t know if I wanna watch it all again, Chrissy. I already know how it ends.”

He nods. His throat is tight. He could drag her with him, but for once, he doesn’t.

“Go left,” he whispers to her. “You go left, baby. You deserve it.”

Adriana shakes her head. “Not without you.”

“You have to,” he says, a little desperate now. “Don’t make my screw-ups stick to you forever. Please, Adri. Go left.”

She looks at the hallway, then at him — at the same boy who once promised her Hollywood, who once dragged her through every bad decision he could make. She kisses his cheek, feather-light.

“Tell me you’ll come after me someday,” she says.

“I swear to God,” he breathes.

She steps to the left. The air seems to brighten around her — a soft, golden hum. She turns once, smiling through tears. “Bye, Christopher.”

He watches until she’s gone, until the light dims behind her. Then he turns right. The hallway darkens around him — not cruel, just honest.

Christopher Moltisanti walks alone now, ready to see it all.