Designs On You — A Contemporary Romance by Sammie Ward

 

Designs On You is a heartfelt romance about starting over, reclaiming your worth, and finding love where you least expect it.

Echoes of Faith: The House Across the Street| Flash Fiction

The House Across the Street

A wrongly delivered Christmas card brings a quiet knock to a door long closed to joy. But sometimes, kindness is the key that opens more than just a mailbox. A tender story of second chances, unexpected connections, and the gentle work of grace. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

Snow had begun falling again — soft and slow, like God whispering peace into the world one flake at a time.

Theodore (Ted) Greene pulled his coat tighter and stepped onto his porch with a tin of birdseed under one arm. A row of cardinals waited on the fence like faithful churchgoers, heads tilted, patient. The radio inside hummed with old Christmas hymns, and somewhere down the street a child’s laughter echoed into the quiet.

He bent to open the mailbox, expecting bills or church bulletins. Instead, he found a bright red envelope with gold cursive.

To: Miriam Leland
214 Magnolia Lane
Detroit, MI 55555

Theodore blinked. That was the house across the street — the one with the drawn curtains and the porch light that hadn’t been turned on in weeks. Miriam had lived there as long as he had. Longer, maybe. But she kept to herself. No lights. No tree. Just silence and shutters.

He turned the envelope over. No return address. Just a card, sealed, sent from somewhere — or someone — who remembered her.

He stood on his porch a moment longer, snow dusting his shoes.
Then he crossed the street.

Theodore paused at the bottom of her porch steps. The rail was dusted with snow, untouched. No footprints. No wreath on the door. No welcome mat. Just a quiet house wrapped in gray.

He raised his hand to knock… and hesitated.
What would he even say?

Still, he rapped gently — twice.
No answer.

He waited, listening. Nothing but the creak of trees in the cold. After another moment, he bent down and slid the envelope into the doorframe, careful not to let the wind catch it.

“Maybe you still want this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

As he turned to go, he glanced back at her windows. The curtains didn’t move. No shadow. No sign.

 But something about it sat heavy in his chest.

___

The next morning, as he walked past her house again — birdseed in hand — the envelope was gone.

He didn’t see her for days. Not until Friday, when he was sprinkling feed under the oak tree near the sidewalk. A soft sound caught his attention — the creak of an old wooden porch swing.

There she was. Miriam Leland.

Wrapped in a long gray coat. Stooped slightly. She sat on the edge of her porch, tossing crumbs to a small black-and-white cat that had curled beneath the steps. Her hair, once black, was pulled into a low twist. No makeup. No expression. Just eyes watching the cat, and the man across the street.

Theodore raised a hand in greeting. “You’ve got good company.”

She didn’t answer. Not at first.
Then her voice came, dry like paper. “Stray comes and goes. Just like everything else.”

He took a few steps toward her fence but didn’t cross it. “Hope he stays awhile. No one likes to be alone at Christmas.”

She gave him a look — not cruel, just tired. “You don’t know what people like at Christmas.”

Theodore nodded, quietly. “That’s fair.”

A long silence passed.

Then, just as he turned to go, she called after him, softer this time:
“That card you brought…”

He stopped.

“I haven’t gotten a Christmas card in twelve years.”

Later that afternoon, Theodore stood on his porch, watching the snow begin again — lazy flurries drifting like ash. Across the street, Miriam was still out. Still feeding the cat. She hadn’t gone back inside.

He tucked a few oatmeal cookies into a napkin, slid them into a paper bag, and walked over.

She saw him coming this time but didn’t move.

“Brought you something,” he said, holding it out.

She hesitated, then took the bag. Opened it. “Homemade?”

“My late wife’s recipe. She used to say the oats made them ‘healthy.’” He smiled gently. “I never asked questions.”

That drew the faintest curve of her mouth — not a smile exactly, but something close. She placed the bag beside her.

“Do you miss her?” she asked suddenly.
Her voice wasn’t sharp now. It was… hollow.

“Every day,” he said. “But less with pain now. More with gratitude.”
He sat on the steps, leaving space between them.

“You have children?”

“Two. One in Virginia. The other... travels. We Zoom. Not the same.”
He looked at her. “You?”

She didn’t answer for a while. Just watched the cat.
Then:  “I had one. A daughter.”

Had.

He said nothing. Let the silence hold.

“I was hard on her,” she finally said. “Too hard. I thought I was being strong. Teaching her to stand on her own. But I was just… angry. At everything. At her.. I know that now.”

Theodore nodded, still quiet.

“She finally left,” she continued. “At first it was phone calls. Then Christmas cards. Then… nothing. I guess I earned that.”

“No one earns silence,” he said. “We just carry it… until something breaks it.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him this time.

“I almost threw that card away,” she whispered. “Didn’t even want to read it. But something made me open it. It said…”  She swallowed.  “It said, ‘You are not forgotten.’”

Her eyes welled. She blinked hard, looked away.

“I don’t even know who sent it.” Miriam sniffed. “There was no name.”

Theodore spoke softly. “You can solve that with a phone call.”

Another silence. But this one didn’t feel so heavy.

“I haven’t put up a tree in twelve years,” she murmured.

“There’s still time,” he said. “I’ve got a few spare ornaments. Maybe you’d like one?”

She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t say no.

___

Two days later, Theodore was on his porch again, humming along to a Nat King Cole tune playing faintly inside. He had just finished stringing the lights across the bannister — nothing flashy, just a soft glow against the dusk.

Across the street, something caught his eye.

Miriam’s porch light was on.

And in the front window… a small artificial tree, lit with just a handful of ornaments. Simple. Even. Beautiful.

He smiled — not with surprise, but with quiet joy.
Something had shifted.

That evening, a soft knock came at his door.

When he opened it, Miriam stood there — wrapped in her same gray coat, a brown paper bag in her hands.

“I never did say thank you,” she said, holding it out. “These are for you. My cookies may not be better than yours..” 

He chuckled, stepping aside taking the cookies. “You’re welcome. It’s the thought that counts. Would you like to come in?”

She hesitated. “Only for a minute.”

Inside, the house smelled of pine and cinnamon. Warm light. Gentle music. Peace.

She stood near the fireplace, gazing at the family photos on the mantel. “It’s… cozy in here,” he said.“Feel free to take a little of it back with you,” he offered.

She turned to him, her voice soft. “Theodore… do you think it’s ever too late? To say I’m sorry? To hope they might still care?”

He shook his head. “It’s never too late to try.  And never too late to care.”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening. Then she smiled — really smiled this time — and for a moment, she looked years younger.

“I taped it to my fridge.” she said.

He smiled. “Good place for reminders.”

As she left, he watched her cross the street — lights glowing now in both houses.
And though he didn’t know what would happen next, he whispered a quiet prayer for Miriam.

___

A few days later, Theodore stepped outside with his morning coffee and paused. Across the street, Miriam stood on her porch — phone pressed to her ear, the small black-and-white cat curled around her feet.

She smiled and waved.

He waved back, quietly.

That night, a text came from an unknown number:

“This is Rachel Leland. Thank you… for giving me back my mother.”

Theodore smiled, then looked up toward the winter sky.

He lifted his hand, pointed gently toward heaven.

“You never stop coming through.”

For forgiveness.
For second chances.
For Christmases not spent alone.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

The door stayed closed. But hope found a way in.

Echoes of Faith: The Empty Chair| Flash Fiction

The Empty Chair

Every year the table was set — even when hope felt far away. The Empty Chair tells the story of a family’s unwavering faith and the Christmas they’ll never forget. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

The smell of cinnamon and roasted ham drifted through the Stallworth farmhouse as snowflakes whispered against the windows. Laughter rose from the kitchen, mingling with the clatter of serving spoons and the high-pitched squeals of excited grandchildren. The long oak table was nearly set for Christmas dinner, decked with red cloth napkins, antique china, and flickering white candles.

At the far end, one chair remained untouched.

Samuel Stallworth stood at its side, staring down at the polished wood as though it might speak. A plate had been set. A cloth napkin folded. But no one would sit there. Not unless a miracle happened.

“Still setting it?” came Ruth’s gentle voice from behind him — his wife of 37 years, with quiet strength in her eyes.

“I don’t know how not to,” Samuel said, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the chair. “It's his seat. Always was.”

“It’s been six years, Sam.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He looked up. “You don’t stop leaving the door open for your child. No matter how long they’ve been gone.”

Ruth hesitated, then rested a hand on his back. “I prayed again this morning. For his heart. And yours.”

Samuel raised her hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss.

The family didn’t know where Micah was. Messages went unread, calls went unanswered. Rumors came and went — someone thought they saw him in Memphis, another in Atlanta. No one could confirm. But every Christmas since, that chair remained empty. And every Christmas, Samuel set the table for one more, waiting.

__

The last time they saw Micah, voices had echoed through this house, not laughter. Accusations. Ultimatums. Micah had told his father he wouldn’t take over the farm — said he was in love with Jenna Cade — daughter of Martin Cade, a ruthless developer who’d tried to buy up Stallworth land for years. They wanted to be together and make a life for themselves. 

 Samuel had seen that as betrayal. Micah had seen it as freedom.

“You’d rather see me married to this farm than be happy!” Micah had shouted.

“I’d rather see you be a man!” Samuel had fired back. “One who honors where he came from!”

___

As guests gathered and the sun dipped low behind the bare trees, the family circled for prayer. They held hands — little ones with sticky fingers, teenagers with half-closed eyes, elders with hands worn by time and work.

“Father,” Samuel said, his voice thick with age and emotion, “thank You for this day. Thank You for every soul gathered here, for health, for home, for hope. Thank You for this season that brings us back together. We ask You to bless this meal, and bless the ones not with us tonight — especially Micah. Wherever he is, Lord, remind him of Your love. Remind him of ours. Bring him home, in Your time.”

A hushed “Amen” followed.

Plates were passed. Turkey carved. Rolls devoured. Laughter returned, tentative at first, then growing stronger. Memories of Micah surfaced — funny ones, sweet ones — and no one hushed them. Not anymore.

“He used to eat all the sweet potatoes before anyone else could get a second helping,” someone said.

“He made up that ridiculous song about gravy,” someone else laughed, and soon they were all singing it, off-key and teary-eyed.

Even Elise, who had been ten when her brother left, chimed in with, “He taught me how to sneak cookies from the top shelf. Said it was ‘survival training.’”

The stories flowed like healing balm. Not erasing the ache, but softening its sharpness. Each tale stitched a bit more thread into the frayed fabric of hope.

Outside, the wind picked up. A dusting of snow blew in swirls across the porch. Then came the sound — soft at first — of tires crunching gravel.

Elise was the first to notice. She rose, peering through the frosted window.

“There’s a car,” she whispered. “It stopped by the gate.”

Conversations stalled. Forks paused midair.

Samuel stood, his heart pounding louder than it had in years. His eyes met his wife’s — her face pale, lips trembling. A flicker of faith passed between them.

Footsteps on the porch. Then — a knock at the door.

It was soft. Hesitant.

All heads turned.

Elise, Micah’s younger sister, froze mid-step. “Did someone invite anyone else?”

“No,” Ruth whispered.

Samuel’s heart thumped.

He crossed to the door, each step heavy. When he opened it, the cold swept in — along with five years of silence.

There stood Micah.

His hair was longer. A few strands of gray near the temple. His navy blue coat was dusted with snow, and his eyes — those same deep brown eyes from childhood — looked both nervous and hopeful.

But what drew Samuel’s gaze next was the small boy standing beside him, clutching his father’s hand and looking up at him with curiosity. He was around six years old.  He had black curls under a wool cap and the same eyes as his father had, back when he was that age.

“Hi, Dad,” Micah said. His voice cracked. 

No one moved. Then a sharp gasp escaped from Ruth behind Samuel, followed by a trembling hand to her mouth.

“I didn’t know if you'd... I mean, I shouldn’t just show up. I get that. I wouldn’t blame you if—”

Micah’s breath fogged in the cold air. His grip tightened on his son’s hand.

“Micah,” Samuel interrupted. His voice was low, gruff.

Micah stiffened. Shielded Zach instinctively.

Then Samuel looked up at his son, eyes swimming. “You came home.”

“I didn’t know how,” Micah said. “After everything... after Jenna left, I—”

Samuel stood slowly. “You didn’t have to know how. You just had to want to.”

Micah’s voice broke. “I was so angry. But you were right about some things. I was proud. I wanted to prove you wrong more than I wanted to keep us right.”

“And I was stubborn,” Samuel said. “Too proud to say I was scared. Scared of losing my son to something I didn’t understand.”

They stood in silence, words not enough. Then Samuel reached out and pulled Micah into a rough embrace.

Samuel wiped a tear away, then looked at the boy with wonder. “And who’s this little guy?”

“This is Zachary, my son. Your grandson.”

Behind them, the family hushed whispers gave way to excited murmurs and children delighted giggles.

Samuel did something Micah didn’t expect. He stepped forward and dropped to one knee.

“Hey there, Zachary,” Samuel said softly. “I’m your granddaddy.”

Zach looked up at his father, who nodded slowly. Then the boy reached out, shyly, and Samuel pulled him into his arms.

From the hallway, Ruth sobbed quietly, hand over her heart.  She glanced up toward heaven. “Thank You, Lord,”

Later, at the table, Zach sat between Ruth and Elise, already sneaking an extra dinner roll.

Micah lingered at the side, unsure.

Samuel motioned to the head chair — the empty one.

“I kept it set,” he said.

Micah’s throat tightened. “You still believed I’d come?”

Samuel gave a quiet smile. “I kept the faith. Just like the father in the good book — watching the road, waiting for his son. So, I left the chair.”

Micah sat slowly, swallowing back tears. His son laughed beside him. Plates were passed again. The room buzzed with warmth and wonder.

And this time, the chair wasn’t empty.

It overflowed.

With grace.
With family.
With home.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

The seat was empty. The Prayer never did.

Echoes of the Court: Where Is He?| The Search for the Newborn King| Flash Fiction

Where Is He? The Search for the Newborn King

 

The winter wind scraped the walls of Herod’s palace like a warning. I am Nadar, a scribe of the king’s court. I wrote the orders. I kept the records. And I saw the moment when fear took Herod by the throat—because strangers asked him, “Where is the child?”

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Echoes of Scripture: Witness of Faith in Babylon| Flash Fiction

 

Witness of Faith in Babylon

The heat of Babylon’s plain burned like judgment, searing my eyes and soul—but in the furnace, I saw a light no flame could touch. It blazed brighter than the King’s false gold. I am Malkiel, a slave from Judah. I bowed when others stood. But I watched them walk into the fire—and in its fiercest heart, I saw the Son of the Gods.

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---

The heat of the sun was a mocking counterpoint to the heat radiating off the newly polished Golden Image. Three score cubits high—a tower of raw, searing yellow—it seemed to swallow every ray of Babylon’s cruel sun and vomit it back upon us. My name is Malkiel. I was taken from my home in Judah, one of the countless, another bowed back for the King’s viewing pleasure.

The King had been issuing decrees for days. I had seen Daniel—Belteshazzar, as the Babylonians called him—the wisest of the exiles, try to intervene earlier. His face was a careful mask of respect, but his eyes were full of storm. I heard him in a hushed exchange with King Nebuchadnezzar.

“My lord King,” Daniel said softly, “this image is meant to unify, not destroy loyalty. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are men of order. Their fidelity to their God is why they are faithful to you. Do not punish their hearts for their worship.”

The King had only waved a jeweled hand, dismissive and hard.
“Silence. Their hearts will conform—or they will burn. I will have no exceptions.”

Today, my place was just behind the massive drums, where the air was thick with the dust of the Dura plain and the sickly-sweet scent of unmixed incense. The sun was merciless, the drums slick with sweat from the men who beat them, and above it all loomed the statue: impassive, blinding, grotesque. Nebuchadnezzar wanted a spectacle. He wanted the world to see his gods triumph over ours. He wanted obedience chiseled into our bones, fear hammered into our worship.

The furnace stood close by—an enormous, white-hot kiln of brick and flame. Its mouth gaped like a hungry, fiery beast, and even from where I stood, the heat gnawed at my skin like invisible teeth.

The music began—a cacophony of brass and string, shrill reeds and pulsing drums. It was not a melody but a command: fall, submit, yield. I fell. We all fell. Thousands of us—a wave of humanity crashing onto the gritty earth. I pressed my face into the dust, choking on grit and humiliation.

“Adonai, forgive me,” I whispered. “My hands are bound. My neck is in the yoke.”

But then—through the roar of music—I heard absence. A silence, louder than any sound. The silence of three men who did not fall.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego—the King’s chosen administrators.
But I knew them by their true names: Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah—names that echoed the holiness of Jerusalem.

They stood alone amidst a sea of bowed bodies. Their faces were not proud, but resolute. Their eyes fixed—not on the King, but on something beyond this world. Their silence thundered across the plain.

Zealots noticed first. I heard their gasps, saw fingers pointing. Cries of treason rose like sparks. The music halted in a sour clash of notes. All eyes turned to the three who had not bowed.

The King’s face darkened—first in confusion, then in fury. His jaw clenched, and his eyes burned hotter than the furnace.

“Seize them!” the King roared, his voice cracking with rage.

Guards surged forward. They dragged the three men through the crowd, tying their wrists and ankles with heavy leather straps. I had spoken with them in quiet moments. They were kind. Gentle in speech. They had spoken to me of Hesed—the covenant love of our God. And now, they faced death with that same love carved into their hearts.

The King gave them one final chance. He leaned down from his raised platform, voice wrapped in threat. “Bow, or burn.”

But they did not flinch.

“Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace,” said Shadrach, his voice steady. “But even if He does not—let it be known to you, O King—we will not serve your gods, nor worship the golden image.”

A cold wind swept the plain. Or maybe it was only the breath leaving a thousand lungs.

The King’s fury exploded. “Heat it seven times hotter!” he shouted.

I was only thirty cubits away when they were dragged toward the furnace. The heat was unbearable. It shimmered the air like water. The King’s strongest men, in full armor, forced them closer—but they never returned. As they threw the bound exiles into the fire, the flames leapt out and consumed them in a flash. They fell—blackened shadows, smoldering where they had stood.

I staggered back, trembling. It was over. They were gone.

But then—movement.
In the heart of the fire.

Through the rising heat, I saw them—walking.
Walking.

Three figures, unbound. Their garments untouched, their hair unsinged. The straps that had bound them were gone, consumed by flame.

And then—
A fourth.

He did not walk as they did. His form shimmered with a radiant clarity, a light that bent the fire away from Him. He stood among them like a priest in a holy place, like a king among brothers, like no man I had ever seen.

The King gasped, stepping back, eyes wide with terror.

“Did we not cast three men bound into the fire?” he cried, voice shrill.

“Look!” he pointed. “I see four—walking freely—and the fourth… the fourth is like a son of the gods!”

I saw Him, too. I, Malkiel, slave of Judah. I saw the Fourth Man. He walked with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego . The fire dared not touch Him. His presence quieted the roar of the furnace. His face was peace. His robe shimmered like morning light. The heat became nothing before Him.

And then, they emerged. All three. Alive.
They stepped out into the shocked silence of the court, not even smelling of smoke. A miracle, undeniable. A God, unshaken.

The King fell to his knees.

___

In the days that followed, word spread like wind. The miracle—the Fourth Man—became a whisper on the lips of every exile. We spoke His name softly, reverently. We passed the story under our breath like bread among the hungry.

For me, a simple slave—the one who had bowed—the appearance of the Son of the Gods was not just a miracle.

It was a promise.

It meant that even here, in the darkest, hottest, most hopeless place of our captivity, Adonai had not forgotten us. Even when we were forced to bend the knee, even when our faith cracked under the weight of fear—He was still there.

He did not prevent the fire.
But He walked in it.

And I—who had bowed—now believe.                                                                  

🕊️ An Echoes of Scripture Story