Echoes of Faith: The Weight of The Past| Flash Fiction

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The Weight of The Past

He’s been sober for nearly two years, but the silence from his daughter still haunts him. When forgiveness feels out of reach, can grace still find a way? This story explores redemption, regret, and the quiet power of a second chance. Read his journey below and discover what can happen when science meets the unseen.

It had been nearly two years since Darren last had a drink.

There were still moments when the urge would creep in—after a lengthy day at work, after enduring a heavy silence, or after she crossed his mind. Yet each time, he recalled the vow he had taken: to God, to himself, and to the daughter who hadn't talked to him since she was sixteen.

He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at the last text he’d sent her four months ago.

“Just wanted to say I’m proud of you. No pressure to reply. I’m here when you’re ready. –Dad”

The message had been delivered. Seen. No response.

Darren released a shaky breath as he browsed her public Instagram profile. He wasn't obsessing like he used to; he just wanted to make sure she was doing alright. She was in college these days, focusing on psychology. Occasionally, she shared photos of coffee mugs, sunsets, and friends unfamiliar to him. One picture from last week showed her laughing in a bookstore, and he found himself gazing at it longer than he intended.

He recalled bringing her to the library when she was eight years old. While she was inside, he dozed off in the car. Upon waking, he realized she was missing. The police eventually discovered her sobbing behind the building. She had waited and waited, then wandered away, believing he had abandoned her.

That was the first time she said, “I don’t trust you.”

She had every right.

Darren traced his thumb along the phone's edge, puzzled about why she had unblocked his number. Perhaps she wanted to check if he was still alive, felt sorry for him, or maybe it was an act of divine intervention—though Darren doubted that God would be involved in such matters.

He opened a new text. Typed. Erased. Typed again.

“You don’t have to forgive me. I just want you to know I’m still trying. Still sober. Still praying for you.”

He stared at it.

Then hit send.

The message went through instantly.

He laid the phone face down on the nightstand and leaned back against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling. His mind drifted to the cross his pastor had gifted him after receiving his one-year chip. It still hung by the door, sometimes feeling like an achievement, other times like a burden.

“God,” he whispered, “what if I’ve been forgiven by You… but not by her?”

There was no thunder or voice, only the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the distant noise of cars driving by outside.

Still, he stayed there, eyes closed. Waiting.

The following morning, Darren found himself seated alone in the last row of a modest storefront church he had begun visiting every Tuesday night. It wasn't anything extravagant—just some rows of chairs, walls with chipped paint, and a table with lukewarm coffee by the entrance. Yet, it was the only space where he felt free from the shadows of his past.

This week’s devotional was led by a woman named Denise, someone from the recovery group who had a voice that was always gentler than Darren thought he deserved. She stood at the front with her Bible open, reading from Luke 15.

“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him…”

Her voice caught slightly on the word compassion, and she took a breath before closing the book.

“I used to think this story was only about the son,” she said. “But lately I’ve been thinking about the father. The waiting. The pain. The wondering if he’d ever get a second chance to love his child.”

Darren shifted in his seat, the breath catching in his throat.

“He didn’t wait until his son apologized,” Denise continued. “He didn’t demand explanations. He ran. He wrapped him in grace before a word was spoken. That’s how God loves us. And maybe that’s how we’re called to love too—even when the person we’re waiting on… doesn’t come back.”

Her gaze swept across the room without settling on anyone specific. However, Darren was convinced she glanced at him.

He dropped his head into his hands. His eyes burned.

That night, he didn’t text his daughter.

He didn’t check Instagram.

He sat at the kitchen table with an open Bible and a yellow legal pad, writing down the names of everyone he’d hurt—starting with her.

When he reached her name, he stopped.

Not because it hurt the most.

But because something in him said: This is where healing begins.

With a trembling hand, Darren circled her name on the legal pad, as if marking a boundary between the past and the future. He traced the letters of her name, feeling the weight of each stroke. It was a name that had once been spoken with tenderness, now carrying a heavy burden of regret and distance.

As he sat there in the quiet of his kitchen, he felt the weight of his actions settle around him like a shroud. The memories of missed birthdays, broken promises, and drunken arguments flooded back to him with a painful clarity. He thought about all the times he had chosen the bottle over his daughter, all the moments he had let her down.

But there was something different stirring within him now. A flicker of hope, a whisper of redemption. The words Denise had spoken at the church echoed in his mind, challenging him to love without conditions, to offer grace without expecting anything in return.

The sudden ringing of his cell phone jolted him from his deep contemplation

Darren didn’t recognize the number at first. Thought about ignoring it—like he did with most unknowns. But something in him stirred. He picked up.

"Hello?" Darren answered, his voice tentative.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Darren's heart began to race. Could it be her? The daughter he had been yearning to hear from for so long?

"Dad?”

The word pierced through the phone, sending a wave of emotions crashing over Darren. It was her. It was his daughter.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he struggled to compose himself. "Yes, sweetheart, it's me," he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion.

"I... I got your message," she said softly, her voice trembling with an emotion Darren couldn't quite place.

Darren's grip on the phone tightened. This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for, hoping for. "I've missed you so much," he whispered, the words carrying a lifetime of longing.

There was a pause on the line before she spoke again. "I've missed you too, Dad,” her voice cracked, and Darren felt his heart shatter and mend all at once. They spoke for hours that night, dancing around the painful memories and tiptoeing into the future they both longed to be a part of. She told him about her classes, her friends, her dreams. He listened in awe, hanging on to every word as if it were a lifeline.

When the call finally ended, Darren sat in the dimly lit kitchen, the weight of regret replaced by something softer.

Hope.

He looked at the legal pad in front of him—the names, the past, the pain.

And he circled hers again.

This time, not in grief.

But in grace.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed that maybe...

this was just the beginning.

Echoes of Faith| The Unseen Guide| Not All Leave Footprints| Flash Fiction

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The Unseen Guide

When Dr. Nate Reece breaks his ankle deep in the Appalachian wilderness, help seems impossible—until a mysterious stranger appears. By morning, the man is gone… and Nate is healed. Read his journey below and discover what can happen when science meets the unseen.

Dr. Nathaniel “Nate” Reece didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t measure. A field biologist and evolutionary theorist, Nate had spent the last decade tracking the migration patterns of birds through the Appalachian backcountry. Faith, in his view, was a crutch—an ancient explanation for a world that now bent to science.

On the third day of his solo expedition, Nate veered off the trail to investigate a strange cluster of bird calls. The sky was cloudless, the early summer heat dry and buzzing with insects. His GPS lost signal somewhere near a bend in the valley, but he didn’t worry. He’d studied these mountains for years. He knew how to navigate.

Except he didn’t.

By the time the sun dropped behind the ridgeline, Nate realized he hadn’t seen a trail marker in hours. The birds were gone. The forest, thick and alive, had swallowed every familiar landmark. Trees looked the same in every direction, and his compass needle spun slightly—magnetic interference, maybe, or a technical failure.

Still, he kept walking.

The next morning, his canteen was nearly empty, and his emergency satellite phone refused to power on. His notes, carefully annotated in a field journal, had been soaked in a stream crossing the day before. His body ached. His pride, sharper than any pain, kept him from panicking—until he slipped on loose gravel and landed with a sickening crunch.

Nate cried out and collapsed onto a bed of pine needles, biting down a scream. His ankle throbbed—misshapen and swelling fast. The pain made him dizzy. He reached out and touched it lightly.

Broken. He knew it.

He sat there, sweat beading on his forehead, listening to the silence press in.

That was when he first heard the voice.

“Long way from the trail, aren’t you?”

Startled, Nate looked up. A man stood a few yards away, tall, sun-worn, dressed in old canvas clothes. He had a walking stick and a weathered satchel slung over one shoulder. His face was deeply lined, his beard silver. But his eyes—his eyes were young.

Nate blinked. “Where did you come from?”

The man smiled. “Just over the ridge.”

“I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Most don’t.” He gestured to Nate’s ankle. “That looks rough. Mind if I take a look?”

Nate hesitated. He didn’t like strangers, especially ones who appeared without explanation. But he was in no position to argue. The man knelt beside him and gently examined the injury.

“This is bad,” he said quietly. “You can’t walk on it.”

“So it’s broken?”

The man answered right away. “Yes, it is.”

Nate frowned. “Are you a doctor?”

“Nothing like that.”

“You from around here?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know the way back.”

That sentence dropped into Nate’s chest like a stone. “You… you can guide me out?”

“You can’t go anywhere on that ankle.”

“Then can you go and get help?”

“We don’t have to do that,” the man said. “I can help.”

“How? If you’re not a doctor?”

“I’ll build a fire,” he said, already gathering wood. “And a splint for that leg. Then we’ll see.”

He worked quietly, tying branches into place and wrapping Nate’s ankle with strips of cloth from his own pack. The fire crackled to life under the man’s steady hands. Nate leaned back, exhausted.

The man hummed an old tune—something Nate didn’t recognize but found strangely comforting.

As the flames danced higher, Nate watched them flicker. For a moment, he thought he saw… something. A shape. A glow. A presence. A figure sitting within the flames, still and watchful, robed in light.

He blinked.

Gone.

He turned toward the man, but he was already lying down, eyes closed. Maybe sleeping. Maybe not.

“Rest,” the man murmured, without opening his eyes. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Nate meant to ask how he knew that—but sleep pulled him under before the words could form.

The next morning, he woke to birdsong and an empty campsite.

He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

The guide was gone.

No footprints. No satchel. No sign that anyone had ever been there.

Nate sat up slowly—and froze.

His ankle.

The swelling was gone. The bruising, faint. He moved his foot. No sharp pain. No resistance.

He stood.

No pain.

His breath caught. He crouched, stood again. Balanced on it. Walked a few steps.

No. This wasn’t possible.

Not medically. Not logically. Not… humanly.

“Hello?” he called out, louder now. “Where did you go?”

No answer.

Then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the trees, he heard a voice—not a shout, not a whisper, but something inside his chest.

“Keep going. You’re almost there.”

Nate stumbled forward, heart pounding, feet steady. For the first time in days, he wasn’t afraid.

Minutes later, he stepped onto a ranger trail—sunlight breaking through the trees, and the distant rumble of an engine.

On the ride to the ranger station, Nate shared his story. The rangers listened quietly, exchanging glances.

One of them finally said, “You said your ankle was broken yesterday?”

“It was,” Nate replied.

The ranger raised an eyebrow. “Then how are you walking on it?”

Nate didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Later, as they approached the station, another ranger added gently, “People see things out there sometimes. Hear voices. When they’re alone too long.”

But Nate knew what he saw.
What he felt.
And it hadn’t come from inside his head.

Back at the station, the rangers gave him a hot meal, clean clothes, and a ride into town. He thanked them, filed a shaky report, and boarded a flight home to New York the next day.

But nothing felt the same.

When he stepped into his apartment—walls lined with books, specimens, and framed degrees—Nate felt like a stranger in his own life.

He looked at the evidence of everything he’d built. Everything he had trusted. Everything that now felt… insufficient.

He limped—out of habit, not necessity—over to the far end of his bookshelf. His fingers hovered for a moment, then pulled down a Bible he hadn’t touched in years.

He flipped it open at random.

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels unawares.”
—Hebrews 13:2

He read it again.
And again.

That verse burned itself into his memory.

He closed the Bible slowly, his hands trembling.

He wasn’t sure what came next.
But for the first time in his life, he wanted to find out.

That Sunday, for the first time in over twenty years, Nate stepped through the doors of a small neighborhood church.

He didn’t know what he was looking for.
But he knew where to start.

Echoes of Faith: Reunion At Sunrise| A Easter Story of Faith, Family, and Miracles| Flash Fiction

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Reunion At Sunrise

When a teenage girl discovers her great-grandmother’s wartime journal, a powerful Easter vision brings unexpected hope. As her family gathers for church—still aching from silence and distance—a miracle unfolds in real time. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

The sun slowly rose, its warm glow spreading across the sky like a gentle whisper. As it climbed higher, golden light spilled over the rooftops and onto the modest brick church nestled at the edge of the quiet southern town of Birmingham, Alabama. The church steeple caught the morning light and gleamed—a beacon of hope and faith.

It was Easter morning, and anticipation buzzed in the air. Inside, choir members adjusted their robes. The scent of lilies drifted from the altar. Sunlight slanted through the stained glass, warming the polished wood of the pews, which creaked as families settled into their Sunday places.

In the third pew from the front, fifteen-year-old Alaya Brooks smoothed her lavender dress and stared down at the worn leather journal resting in her hands. Its scent reminded her of old cedar and faint lavender, a perfume that still lingered in her great-grandmother’s trunk where she'd found it just days ago. Her mother had asked her to search for Easter decorations, but what she uncovered felt like something holier.

Inside the journal was a story so vivid, so tender, it had rooted itself in her chest ever since.

Josephine, her great-grandmother, had lived through World War II. As an African American woman, Josephine hadn’t been allowed to serve as a military nurse. Still, she volunteered with the local Red Cross and worked long shifts in the colored ward of the county hospital. Her journal chronicled those days when faith was the only thing that sustained her—especially after her younger brother, Jeremiah, was drafted and sent overseas.

The choir’s melody rose around her, voices weaving into harmony, filling every corner of the sanctuary. Alaya’s fingers traced the delicate cursive etched across the yellowed pages. Each word felt alive, a thread between past and present. She could almost feel Josephine’s heartbeat pulsing beneath the ink, carrying stories of sacrifice and resilience.

She’d read the journal cover to cover three times already, but one entry lingered more than the others.

It was Easter, 1943. Josephine had just received word that Jeremiah had died in combat. That night, she recorded a vision: she stood weeping in an empty field when a man in a glowing white robe appeared beside her. He said, “He is not dead—for He has risen. And your brother lives in Him.”

A week later, a telegram arrived. There had been a mistake. Jeremiah was alive and returning home.

Alaya clutched the journal tighter. Her own brother, Joshua, was serving in the Middle East. They hadn’t heard from him in three months—not since his unit had gone silent in a remote conflict zone. Her father had stopped mentioning his name. Her mother prayed nightly, voice trembling through whispered pleas. And Alaya?

She held onto Josephine’s vision like a lifeline. Like proof that resurrection wasn’t just something ancient. It could still happen.

A soft hand brushed her cheek.

“Alaya, you okay, baby?” her grandmother asked, her voice warm and steady.

“Yes, ma’am,” Alaya whispered, managing a smile. She slipped the journal into her purse and glanced toward the sanctuary doors, half-hoping, half-doubting.

The service began. Familiar hymns rose like sunlight breaking through clouds. The pastor’s voice rang with the promise of new life, of stone rolled away, of tombs emptied.

But Alaya’s thoughts were far from the pulpit—on her brother, on Josephine, on the way silence had settled into their house like fog.

The preacher’s words wrapped around her: “He is risen. He is risen indeed.”

Maybe, she thought. Maybe still.

Just as the choir began singing “Because He Lives,” the sanctuary doors creaked open.

Heads turned. A ripple of gasps swept the congregation.

There he was—Joshua.

Leaner than before, his Army fatigues loose on his frame, but unmistakably him. His eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on Alaya. His smile was quiet and certain.

Time paused.

Her mother’s Bible fell to the floor with a soft thud. Her father rose, hands trembling. Alaya stood frozen, her heart hammering, until her feet carried her forward, faster and faster.

“Joshua?” Grandma’s voice cracked.

Alaya crashed into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. He held her just as tightly.

“I told you I’d come back,” he whispered, voice hoarse but strong.

They sat together through the rest of the service—Joshua in the center, surrounded by his sisters and parents, their hands clasped like a chain unbroken.

As the final Amen echoed through the sanctuary, Alaya reached into her purse and handed him the journal.

“Great-Grandma had a vision once,” she whispered. “After they told her her brother was gone.”

Joshua opened the cover, thumbing gently through the pages. The corners were soft with age.

“She believed God showed her he was still alive. She held onto it. And a week later, he came home.”

Joshua read a line, nodded. “Sometimes, that’s what keeps you going out there.”

Alaya tilted her head. “How did you get here? I mean...we didn’t know if—”

He smiled, weary but sure. “They airlifted us out. I didn’t even know they’d sent the message until yesterday. I asked them to drop me at the closest base to home.”

A pause.

“I needed to be here today.”

Later that afternoon, the family gathered beneath a white canopy in the churchyard. Tables brimmed with fried chicken, deviled eggs, potato salad, and peach cobbler warm from the oven. Laughter laced the air. Cousins chased each other between folding chairs while the elders shared stories of Easters past.

Joshua recounted his deployment—not the worst of it, but the moments that anchored him: a cross built from scraps of wood on Easter morning, a care package with socks and honey buns, the soldier who sang hymns during watch duty.

Alaya sat beside him, a slice of sweet potato pie on her plate, the journal resting between them.

“You gonna write in it?” he asked, tapping the leather cover.

She nodded. “I think I will. Somebody should know what hope looks like.”

He smiled. “And what it feels like.”

As the sun dipped behind the pines, casting golden shadows across the yard, Alaya opened to the final page and began to write:

April 20, 2025 – Easter Sunday

Today, we witnessed resurrection.

Not only from death, but from despair. From distance. From doubt.

He walks among us—in every return, every reunion, every sunrise.

That evening, as twilight settled over Birmingham, the family circled on Grandma’s front porch, hymnals in hand. Their voices rose and fell in gentle harmony, floating out into the cool spring night. No one rushed. No one hurried. The air smelled of cut grass and fading lilies.

And there, beneath the hush of stars and the warmth of belonging, their story continued—

an echo of grace, a miracle lived.

Obadiah Chronicles: The Fire and The Fear| (Flash Fiction 11) Part 2

 

The Fire and The Fear: Part 2

At the Arklow Museum – Restricted Archives

Obadiah stood before an open scroll in the low-lit archives, the air heavy with the scent of aged parchment and burning oil. His jaw tightened as Luk-el laid a leather-bound tome on the desk beside him.

“It’s started,” Luk-el said. “The fire. Laric texted me. He saw it.”

Obadiah didn’t flinch. “And Alex?”

“He was there. Just watching. Pendant glowing like a brand.”

Obadiah ran a hand down the brittle scroll. “Then we’re out of time.”

Luk-el opened the book and flipped through its pages, stopping at an illustration of a bird—black feathers splayed, wings carved into obsidian. A raven.

“This symbol keeps coming up,” he said. “Ancient Judah. Late reign of King Manasseh.”

Obadiah looked closer.

In the margin, written in Aramaic, was a phrase Luk-el translated aloud.

“He who wears the bird of ash calls down fire from the gods.”

Obadiah’s brow furrowed. “That’s not a metaphor.”

“No,” Luk-el said. “It’s a curse. Rav’ach. The shadow raven god.”

Obadiah’s voice dropped low. “I thought that worship was wiped out.”

“So did Heaven,” Luk-el replied grimly. “But Naamah was once his high priestess. Before she turned to sorcery, before Antioch pulled her back from the pit… this was her first altar.”

“And now she’s found her vessel,” Obadiah said. “A boy angry enough to burn the world down.”

---

Outside the Community Center – The Morning After

Yellow tape wrapped around the ruins like a noose. Firefighters sifted through blackened beams, the air still thick with the tang of smoke and melted insulation.

Laric stood off to the side, his bike leaning against a light pole. He hadn’t slept. Allen sat on the curb nearby, hugging his knees.

Neither of them said much.

“I saw him,” Laric said finally. “He wasn’t scared. Just… empty. Like he wanted it.”

Allen rubbed his hands over his face. “We should’ve told someone sooner.”

“We’re telling them now.”

Laric pulled out his phone and dialed his uncle.

---

At Obadiah’s Study

Obadiah listened in silence as Laric spoke, his tone low but urgent. Luk-el paced in the background, tense.

“He was just standing there,” Laric said. “And the fire—Uncle, it felt wrong. It didn’t look… natural.”

Obadiah’s voice was calm. “You did the right thing.”

“Do you think he meant to do it?”

Obadiah didn’t answer right away.

“I think,” he said carefully, “he’s being changed. And if we don’t act quickly, the change will become permanent.”

---

Later That Day – Obadiah and Luk-el in the War Room

Obadiah stood before the glowing table in the museum’s sub-basement. The war room. Few even knew it existed.

On its surface, old maps of Judah shimmered alongside digital overlays of Baylor City.

“We need to jump,” Luk-el said.

Obadiah nodded slowly. “Manasseh’s reign. When Rav’ach was last worshipped openly. If we can understand how the faithful fought this spirit back then…”

“We might save Alex now.”

They both turned toward the ancient artifact embedded in the center of the table—a bronze seal shaped like a wheel, inscribed with sacred runes.

Obadiah placed his palm over it.

The metal responded instantly, pulsing with golden light.

“Guide us to truth,” he whispered.

In a breath of wind and light, the war room vanished.

---

Ancient Judah – Temple of Rav’ach

Smoke filled the courtyard. Incense. Sacrifice. Despair.

Obadiah and Luk-el stood cloaked in the garments of local merchants, blending into the crowd as a woman with long black braids stepped onto the altar platform.

Naamah.

But not the withered, witch-formed sorceress of modern days.

Here, she was young. Regal. Deadly.

And around her neck, a pendant glowed—a perfect match to Alex’s.

“You give your fear,” she proclaimed, “and Rav’ach gives you strength. Through this emblem, you are remade.”

People knelt. Some wept. Others clutched their own raven pendants like lifelines.

Luk-el leaned in. “She’s binding them through fear.”

“And rage,” Obadiah added. “They offer emotion like a burnt offering.”

Naamah held up a scroll—burned around the edges, inscribed in red.

“Every curse has a mirror,” Obadiah said. “We need that scroll.”

Luk-el scanned the courtyard. “Then we’ll steal it.”

---

At the Thompson House

Alex lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The pendant pulsed faintly against his chest. The world outside was bright, loud, too alive.

He didn’t want to go back to school.

He didn’t want to face the stares.

The whispers.

The guilt.

But… was it guilt?

Or something else?

The fire had made him feel… powerful. Untouchable.

Naamah’s voice echoed in his mind.

“This is just the beginning, Alex. You’re shedding their shame.”

He closed his eyes. And smiled.

---

Back in Ancient Judah – Escape from the Temple

Night had fallen. Obadiah’s fingers tightened around the stolen scroll as he and Luk-el darted through the narrow back alleys of Jerusalem.

“We’ll study it in the morning,” Luk-el whispered.

Obadiah nodded. “We need to find the counter-ritual. There has to be a way to break the pendant’s hold.”

From behind them, distant shouts rose.

They’d been seen.

Obadiah turned. “Run.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Obadiah Chronicles:The Fire and The Fear| (Flash Fiction 10) Part 1

The Fire and The Fear

The Baylor City Community Center had always been a quiet place—old brick, peeling paint, a faded mural of kids holding hands across the side wall. It wasn’t flashy, but it was familiar. Safe.

Until tonight.

Alex Thompson stood at the edge of the cracked parking lot, the faint hum of streetlights overhead. His breath came in slow, shallow pulls, the cold night air biting his throat. The raven pendant hung heavy around his neck, pressing against his chest like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

He didn’t know why he was here.

His feet had brought him.

His mind buzzed with static—flashes of Jason laughing, of the hallway slam, of every moment he’d ever been pushed aside, overlooked.

“You’re not nothing,” Naamah’s voice whispered. “You are the storm.”

Alex’s fingers curled into fists. His nails dug into his palms.

He took a step closer to the building.

The center had been closed for hours, but the echo of old memories clung to it—school clubs, game nights, food drives. The kind of place people cared about.

The kind of place that would be missed.

The pendant grew warm.

Then hot.

Alex staggered, grabbing the chain, but it didn’t burn. Not like fire. It pulsed with energy—like it was waking up. Or waking him up.

“I didn’t come here to do anything,” Alex said aloud, but his voice was thin. Unconvincing.

From the shadows, the raven landed silently on a nearby lamppost.

Its glowing eyes locked on his.

“You came because they’ll notice,” the voice said. Not Naamah’s. Antioch’s.

“You came because deep down, you want them to feel it.”

A low rumble sounded behind Alex.

He turned.

Smoke.

The first trail of it curled upward from one of the windowsills.

His stomach dropped. “No… I didn’t…”

A soft glow flickered inside the building.

Then, with a breath—it exploded.

Glass shattered. Heat burst outward like a wave. Flames licked up the side of the building, swallowing the mural of the children.

Alex fell backward onto the pavement, eyes wide with horror.

But no one was there to see him.

Except the raven.

And it cawed once.

Then flew away.

---

At the Felton House

“Dude, do you smell that?” Allen asked, wrinkling his nose as he leaned over the windowsill.

Laric was already pulling on his hoodie. “It’s smoke. It’s close.”

They grabbed their bikes without another word.

As they pedaled through the side streets, Laric’s stomach tightened. The smell grew stronger—burning plastic, scorched paint. And then—

The community center came into view.

Flames engulfed it. Black smoke curled into the sky, lit by the orange glow of destruction. Sirens wailed in the distance, but the fire was already tearing through the roof.

Allen cursed under his breath. “What the heck happened?”

Laric didn’t answer right away.

Because standing at the edge of the scene, far off to the left, barely lit by the flicker of the blaze, was a shape.

A person.

He squinted.

The figure turned—and vanished into the shadows.

---

The Next Morning — Arklow Bible Museum

The smoke lingered in the air even blocks away from the site. Obadiah stood near the tall windows of his office, eyes scanning the skyline.

He hadn't slept.

Something had shifted last night. A ripple in the spiritual current. He'd felt it down to his bones.

Luk-el entered quietly, his tone grim. “It was no ordinary fire.”

Obadiah didn’t need to ask. “You felt it too.”

Luk-el nodded. “Something dark ignited it. Not just destruction—intent.”

Obadiah turned from the window. “I believe one of the Chosen Ones has been compromised.”

“More than compromised,” Luk-el said. “This was a message.”

Obadiah’s hands clenched behind his back. “Then let’s decode it.”

---

After School — Library Computer Lab

Laric hunched over a grainy black-and-white video file.

Allen sat beside him, nervously bouncing his knee.

“I pulled it from the city’s old security cam network,” Laric said. “One of the corner buildings has a rear-facing camera. It caught a figure at the scene. No clear face. But... watch.”

He hit play.

The footage flickered. Smoke began to build from the back windows.

A shadow stood across the street—frozen, unmoving. Watching.

And for one split second, when the fire erupted—

—a glint of metal around the figure’s neck. A pendant.

Allen leaned in. “That’s Alex.”

Laric nodded slowly. “I think... I think the fire came from him.”

Allen stared at the paused frame. “You’re saying he set it on fire?”

“No. I’m saying something inside him did.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Laric stood, grabbing the flash drive.

“I’m telling my uncle.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Echoes of Faith: The Promise They Kept| Flash Fiction

 Prefer to listen? 🎧 The Promise They Kept is now available as an audio on YouTube — click here to listen for FREE!

 

The Promise They Kept

A devoted husband stands by his wife as memory fades, holding tight to their vow of love. This tender story reminds us that true devotion endures—even when memories don't. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

The sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, casting a soft glow across the modest brick home nestled at the end of a quiet street. Inside, James Whitfield moved slowly through the morning ritual he had repeated for years—grinding the coffee beans just right, warming two mugs, and setting them gently on the small table by the window.

Only one would be used today. Just like yesterday. And the day before that.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said softly, placing a kiss on his wife’s forehead. Eleanor stared ahead, her gray eyes clouded by time, her fingers resting in her lap like leaves after the fall. She didn’t answer. Not in words, anyway.

James pulled up a chair beside her, stirring cream into her coffee. “It’s Tuesday,” he said, as though they were planning a trip or a grocery run. “You always used to water the plants on Tuesdays. I already did it for you. The lavender’s still blooming.”

Eleanor blinked slowly, her gaze drifting toward the light. Her once-sharp wit, her radiant laughter, even the way she used to hum hymns while folding laundry—had all become whispers in her mind, easily scattered by the wind.

But James remembered. And so he reminded her.

They’d met during a church potluck in 1972. She wore a yellow dress and served the best macaroni and cheese James had ever tasted. She said she liked his smile; he said he liked her spirit. She laughed, and he knew right then.

They courted slowly and married quickly, tying the knot beneath the old oak tree behind her grandmother’s house. Their vows were simple—homemade, handwritten, sealed with a kiss nd the blessing of an old Baptist preacher who quoted 1 Corinthians 13 with tears in his eyes.

The early years were full of patchwork blessings—jobs that didn’t always last, a leaky roof they fixed together, a hand-me-down car that only started if Eleanor prayed over it first. Still, their joy was abundant. Their firstborn, Marcus, came two years in. Then Carla. Then Devon.

Their home echoed with laughter, piano lessons, scraped knees, burnt cookies, and late-night prayers whispered over sick children. They didn’t have much, but they had each other—and enough faith to stretch across every trial.

“I’ll never leave you,” Eleanor had whispered during one of the hardest nights of their lives. They had just buried their third child, Devon, after an unexpected heart defect took him at six months old. James had folded into himself with grief, but she took his hand.

“Not in joy. Not in sorrow. Not in sickness.”

That day, they lit a candle at church and made a promise to carry each other through whatever life brought.

Fifty-one years later, Eleanor didn’t remember the candle or the church pews. She didn’t know her middle name, or the names of her grandchildren. Sometimes, she didn’t even know James.

But James knew her. And he remembered enough for them both.

Their children were grown now. Marcus, a teacher in Nashville, came home once a month to help around the house. Carla, the youngest, called every morning before work. The grandkids visited when they could—busy with college, careers, and lives of their own.

“You don’t have to do it all, Dad,” Carla had said gently, watching her mother stare blankly out the window. “You’ve already done so much. Let us step in.”

James only smiled. “I promised her,” he said. “And a promise made before God is one you keep.”

That afternoon, as the wind rustled the curtains, James pulled out a worn photo album. It had Eleanor’s handwriting on the cover: The Whitfield Years.

He opened it and began reading aloud, pointing at pictures even though she couldn’t follow.

“Here we are in Savannah. You hated the wallpaper in that bed-and-breakfast.”

He chuckled.

“Our 25th anniversary. That red dress I loved.”

He paused at the next page.

“Devon’s tiny hand… That was the day of his baptism.. You cried the whole time.”

James wiped his eyes. “You always cried at holy things.”

He glanced over at her.

She blinked again, slowly.

Then… she turned her head—just slightly—toward the photo album.

James froze.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “You’re still in there, Ellie. I know you are.”

That evening, he sat beside her bed, their fingers laced together. Her hand felt so small now.

“You used to say love was like a garden,” he murmured. “You had to tend it. Water it. Pull weeds. Be patient.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You always were the patient one. I just followed your lead.”

He looked around the room. The quilt she made for their 40th anniversary was still draped over the back of the couch. The photo of their family reunion last summer—the last time Eleanor had smiled freely—still sat on the shelf.

“I miss hearing your voice,” he said. “But I’ll keep showing up. Even when you don’t remember me. Because I remember you.”

Then, in a moment so quiet it felt like heaven paused to listen, Eleanor moved her lips.

James leaned in.

“I... remember... the vow,” she whispered, barely audible.

Tears welled in his eyes. “I do too,” he choked out. “And I’ll keep saying it with my life until the Lord calls us both home.”

The next morning, the coffee mugs sat side by side again. And James told her about the sunrise, the blooming lavender, and the love that still lived in every corner of their house.

Later that day, as the warm, golden light filtered through the curtains, Eleanor's breaths became more shallow. James grasped her hand and softly hummed their beloved hymn, "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," just as he had done for many years.

She didn’t speak again,  her eyes—just for a moment—met his.

And in that quiet, sacred moment… she passed away peacefully.

James sat by Eleanor's side, his hand still intertwined with hers, feeling the weight of her absence settling in the room like a heavy fog. The hymn lingered in the air, a bittersweet melody that had once filled their home with warmth and now echoed through the emptiness.

As the afternoon sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the room, James found himself lost in memories of their life together. The laughter, the tears, the countless shared moments that now felt both achingly close and impossibly far away.

He pressed a gentle kiss to Eleanor's forehead, whispering words of love and gratitude for all they had shared. And as he sat there, surrounded by the quiet stillness of their home, he knew that her spirit would always be with him, guiding him through the lonely days ahead.

With a heavy heart but a deep sense of peace, James closed his eyes and let himself be enveloped by the memories of a love that transcended time and space.

They had kept the promise.

Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

And now, only one mug would sit on the table.

But the love?

The love would remain.

Forever.