The night air was thick, the silence stretching like an unseen force pressing against the walls of their small home. Grace sat up abruptly, her tiny frame shaking under the weight of her dream. Her breaths came fast, her heart pounding in her ears. The whispers. The shadows. The voices speaking in a language she didn't understand. And then—just before she woke—one word. One word she knew. "Remember." She barely had time to gather herself before her father was at her side, as if he had known, as if he had been waiting. "Shh, my little angel," he murmured, pulling her into his arms. His hands were warm, steady. "It's just a dream." She clutched his shirt, burying her face into his chest. "They were speaking again, Papa," she whispered. "I don't know what they were saying, but this time... this time, I understood one word." Her father tensed, just for a second. It was so brief that if she hadn't been pressed against him, she might have missed it. "And what was the word?" he asked, his voice calm but careful. She pulled back, meeting his gaze. "Remember." For the first time in her young life, she thought she saw something in his eyes that she couldn't name. But then, like a candle snuffed out, it was gone, replaced by the warmth that had always been there. He cupped her face.
"Dreams are strange things, my love. Sometimes they mean nothing, and sometimes they mean everything. But you don't have to be afraid of them. You are safe." She wanted to believe him. "Papa," she murmured after a moment. "Will you tell me a story?" His face lit up in that familiar way. "Ah, you always know how to make me talk, don't you?" She giggled softly, curling into his side as he leaned back against the pillows. "Tell me something I've never heard before." He thought for a moment, then began. "There was once a little bird," he said, his voice low and steady. "A tiny thing with soft brown feathers and bright, curious eyes. Every morning, it sat on the branch of an old tree and sang. It sang even when the sky was gray. Even when storms threatened." Grace listened, captivated. "The other birds laughed at it," he continued. "'Why do you sing when the rain is coming?' they asked. 'Why do you waste your voice on a world that does not listen?'" Grace frowned. "That's mean." Her father chuckled. "Maybe. But the little bird only smiled and said, 'I sing not because I know the sun will come, but because I believe it will.'" She thought about that for a long time. "Did the sun come?" she finally asked. Her father smiled. "Of course, it did. But even if it hadn't, the little bird would have sung anyway. Because faith, my angel, isn't about knowing. It's about trusting, even when you cannot see." She traced patterns on his sleeve, her mind full of questions. Then, after a moment, she asked, "Papa… do you think God ever makes mistakes?" Her father blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Mistakes?" "Yes," she said, looking up at him. "What if He accidentally put someone in the wrong place? Or gave someone the wrong life?" He was quiet for a moment, then squeezed her hand. "God doesn't make mistakes, Grace. Sometimes His plan is bigger than what we understand." She hesitated. "But what if someone was meant to be loved… and then they weren't?" This time, her father exhaled slowly. Then he pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Love is never a mistake," he murmured. "And you, my little angel, were born to be loved." She held onto his words, tucking them deep inside her heart. That night, she fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and safe. But the next morning, for the first time, he did not wake her.
The house was quiet—too quiet. Usually, by now, she would hear the distant hum of her father moving around, preparing for the day, the smell of warm bread filling the air. But today, there was nothing. A cold unease settled in Grace's stomach as she slipped out of bed, her nightgown whispering against the wooden floor. She tiptoed down the hall, pausing at her father's door. It was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of morning light cutting through the darkness inside. She pushed the door open. At first, she thought he was sleeping. He lay still, his broad frame curled slightly under the worn-out blankets. But something wasn't right. "Papa?" she called softly. No response. Her heart hammered as she stepped closer, her fingers trembling as she reached for his hand. The moment her skin touched his, she yanked back—his flesh burned hot, slick with sweat. "Papa!" her voice rose in alarm. This time, he stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that, for the first time in her life, looked tired. So, so tired. "Grace," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to smile, but even that seemed like too much effort. She dropped to her knees beside the bed, her small hands clutching his arm. "You're sick," she said, her voice shaking. He gave a faint chuckle, but it turned into a rough cough. His whole body shook with it, and when he finally stilled, he exhaled slowly, as if even breathing was a struggle. "It's just a little fever, my love," he said weakly, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. His touch was warm—too warm. Grace swallowed against the lump in her throat. "You never get sick." "I do," he whispered. "You just never notice because I'm too stubborn to let it stop me." A tear slipped down her cheek. She hated the way he looked—too pale, too fragile. It wasn't right. Her father had always been strong, unshakable. "Papa," she choked, gripping his hand tightly. "We need a doctor." He sighed, a slow, exhausted sound. "Grace—" "Don't say no." She shook her head fiercely. "I'll go get one. You just have to hold on, okay?" He exhaled through his nose, looking at her for a long moment. Then, he lifted a weak hand and pointed toward the small wooden dresser by the bed. "In the drawer," he murmured. "There's money… take it… go." Grace scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over herself in her rush. She pulled open the drawer, her hands shaking as she searched through the contents. There, nestled between papers and an old pocket watch, was a small leather pouch. She turned back to him, gripping it tightly. "Will this be enough?" His lips twitched into something close to a smile, but his eyelids were already drooping. "It'll do," he whispered. Then, softer, "Hurry, little dove." Grace nodded, ignoring the fresh wave of panic swelling inside her. She took one last look at him—his chest rising and falling too slowly, his face slick with sweat—and then she ran. She didn't look back. She couldn't.
Grace sprinted through the quiet streets, her bare feet barely making a sound against the dirt path. The doctor's house wasn't far, but every second felt like an eternity. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the fear clawing at her throat made it hard to breathe. She banged on the doctor's door frantically. "Dr. Meyers! Please, it's my papa—he's sick, really sick!" The door swung open, revealing a man in his fifties, his silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He took one look at the desperation in her eyes and didn't hesitate. "Take me to him," he said, grabbing his medical bag. Grace led him back home as fast as her legs could carry her, her small hand gripping his sleeve tightly. When they arrived, she rushed inside ahead of him, dropping to her knees beside her father's bed. "Papa, the doctor is here! You'll be okay now, right?" Her voice wavered, desperate for reassurance. Her father managed a weak smile, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. "Of course, my little star." Dr. Meyers pulled a chair close and began his examination. He pressed his stethoscope to her father's chest, checked his pulse, and asked him a few questions. But the more he examined, the deeper his frown became. His lips pressed into a thin line, and when he finally leaned back, his expression gave Grace a terrible feeling in her stomach. She didn't understand what all the medical checks meant, but she understood one thing—Dr. Meyers didn't look relieved. "I'll prescribe something to ease his symptoms," the doctor said, standing. "For now, keep him rested. I'll run some tests, see if I can figure out what's causing this." "That's it?" Grace blurted. "You don't know what's wrong?" The doctor hesitated. He glanced at her father before sighing. "Not yet. But I'll do everything I can." Grace clenched her fists, her chest tightening with frustration. That wasn't good enough. As the doctor gathered his things, her father reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. "Grace, don't worry about me, okay?" His voice was soft but firm. "How can I not worry?" she shot back, her blue eyes welling up with tears. "You're sick, Papa. The doctor doesn't even know what's wrong, and—" "Shhh," he hushed her, lifting a trembling hand to cup her cheek. "I don't want my little girl carrying burdens she shouldn't. You hear me?" Grace bit her lip, staring at him stubbornly. "But I can help. Maybe I can—" "No, my love," he interrupted, his tone gentle but unwavering. "Your job is to be a child. To laugh, to learn, to live. Leave the worrying to me." She wanted to argue. She wanted to beg him to tell her everything. But his tired eyes, the warmth in his voice—it made her feel like no matter what happened, he wanted her to hold onto hope. So, instead of fighting, she sniffled and nodded. "Okay, Papa." But deep down, she wasn't sure if she believed everything would be okay.
The sickness took her father piece by piece. At first, it was just the fever. Then came the weakness, the trembling hands that could barely lift a spoon, the breathless nights where he coughed so hard she feared his body would break. His once-strong arms, the ones that had lifted her onto his shoulders to watch the stars, now lay limp at his sides, too frail to hold her anymore. Grace never stopped praying. Every night, she knelt beside his bed, her small hands clasped so tightly they ached. She whispered prayers until her throat was raw, her forehead pressed to the wooden floor, begging—pleading—for God to listen. "Please," she whispered one night, her voice cracking. "Please, just make him better. I'll do anything. I'll be good, I promise. Just… don't take him away from me." But the heavens remained silent. And the days grew harder. With her father unable to work, money dwindled faster than she could understand. The savings he had tucked away in his drawer were spent on medicine that did nothing, food that barely lasted, and doctor visits that only ended in more questions. Dr. Meyers had tried—at first. He came every few days, then once a week, then… not at all. Each visit was the same. He would check her father, sigh heavily, and mutter, "I don't know what this is…" before prescribing another round of medication that never worked. Eventually, his visits stopped. Grace waited. She sat by the door for hours some days, hoping he would come back, but he never did. And so, she learned to survive. When the food ran out, she forced herself to swallow her pride and knocked on neighbors' doors. "Please," she murmured, hands clasped in front of her. "Do you have any bread? Anything, just a little?" Some gave her scraps. Stale bread, half-eaten apples, bowls of thin soup that barely tasted like anything. Others shut their doors in her face. She didn't cry. She couldn't afford to. Instead, she took whatever she could find and hurried home, placing it in front of her father with a forced smile. "See, Papa? We have food today!" He always tried to eat, but most of the time, he couldn't keep anything down. His skin grew pale, almost gray. His once-bright blue eyes dulled, dark circles sinking beneath them. His voice, which used to be strong and full of warmth, became a faint whisper. One evening, as she was helping him drink water, he let out a slow breath and murmured, "My little star…" "Yes, Papa?" She leaned in, gripping his trembling hand. "You shine even in the darkest nights," he whispered. "I see it… even now…" Her throat tightened. She prayed harder that night. Longer. She begged until her voice was hoarse, until her tears soaked the floor beneath her. But the heavens remained silent.
She ran. Barefoot, dress dirty, hair wild—she ran through the streets, past the people who stared, past the whispers. She ran until the church doors were in front of her, and with all her strength, she shoved them open, her small frame trembling. She stormed inside, chest heaving, feet slamming against the cold marble floors as she ran toward the altar. She skidded to a stop, her eyes locking onto the massive crucifix hanging above. The golden figure of Christ, arms open, looking down at her. The sight filled her with nothing but rage. "You," she spat, her voice shaking. Her fists clenched. "You let him die." Tears blurred her vision. "He loved you. He worshiped you. He never missed a day of prayer. He told me you were good." Her voice cracked. "But you're not, are you?" Silence. "You let bad people live! I see them every day, the thieves, the liars, the ones who never pray!" She pointed at the statue, her hands trembling. "You let them live, but you took my father!" She picked up a candle from the altar and hurled it across the room. It shattered, wax spilling across the floor. "I prayed!" she screamed. "I begged you! What did I do wrong?!" She tore the rosary from her wrist, the one her father had given her, the one she had once clutched during prayers. "You let me save my dog, but not my own father?" A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "What manner of love is this?" She threw the rosary. It hit the altar and slid across the floor, lifeless—just like her father. Then, in a whisper so broken it barely made a sound— "I hate you."
"DID YOU HEAR ME?!!"
"I HATE YOU!!"
Her vision blurred with tears She collapsed onto her knees, sobbing. For the first time in her life, she didn't pray. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel anything. And for the first time in her life… God didn't answer.
The sky wept the day they buried him. Grace stood at the edge of the grave, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. People gathered, murmured prayers, wept—but she didn't. She didn't cry. She didn't pray. She just watched as the dirt covered the last piece of her world. People placed roses. Said kind words. She said nothing. When it was over, they tried to take her away, but she pulled her hand free and walked away on her own. Away from the grave. Away from the church. Away from God. And as she stepped into the world alone, one question echoed in her mind— "If God won't listen… then who will?"