Echoes of Faith: Whispers of Forgiveness| Short Fiction

Whispers of Forgiveness

Eve Leakes held onto the steering wheel tightly, the gentle purr of the engine barely calming her racing mind. The road ahead was narrow and wound its way through a peaceful suburban area, with trees lining the streets still glistening from the recent rain. She hadn't returned to Charlotte for years—ever since her father's funeral. Even then, her visit had been brief. There were too many memories, too much heartache.

It started with a name.

A single document — a custody agreement, a relinquishment of rights. Loren Baker.

Her father had never spoken it aloud, but now it echoed in Eve’s mind.

When she asked about her mother growing up, his answers were always the same. He’d turn away, his eyes darkened by bitterness. Her mother had vanished when Eve was just a baby. One morning, she was simply gone. No explanation. No goodbyes. Her father had been left to pick up the pieces — a man hollowed out by heartbreak. He never spoke about Loren.

"Some people don’t deserve forgiveness," he once said.

Eve believed him.

Her best friend Cassandra had been the first to suggest otherwise.

“So, are you going to go?” Cassandra asked, her voice gentle.

Eve shrugged, tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I don’t know.”

“You have the address.” Cassandra’s gaze was steady. “That’s more than you’ve ever had before.”

“I don’t know if I want it,” Eve muttered. “What good will it do? She left. She’s a stranger.”

“She’s your mother,” Cassandra said softly. “You’ve wondered about her your whole life. Isn’t that why you kept that document instead of throwing it away?”

Eve scowled. “Maybe I kept it to remind myself why I don’t need her.”

Cassandra didn’t flinch. “Or maybe you kept it because part of you wants answers.”

“Answers?” Eve scoffed, her fingers curling tightly around the cup. “She left me. What could she possibly say that would make any of that okay?”

“She doesn’t have to make it okay,” Cassandra said. “But maybe hearing the truth will help you let go.”

Eve’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need closure. I’ve lived without her for this long.”

“Living without her isn’t the same as healing,” Cassandra replied gently. “You can’t tell me you don’t think about her. And now you have the chance to find out why.”

Eve opened her mouth to argue, but the words never came. Every time she thought of that name — Loren Baker — the questions rose like shadows she couldn’t shake. Why had she left? Had she ever wanted to come back? Did she regret it?

“I just… I don’t know if I can face her,” Eve whispered.

Cassandra reached across the table, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to know. Just take the first step. The rest will come.”

Eve swallowed hard. The rest. That’s what terrified her most.

And now, here she was.

The house stood before her, a quaint cottage with vibrant flowers climbing up its brick facade. The garden was lush and carefully tended, blooms of every color swaying gently in the breeze. Eve hesitated, gripping the car keys tightly. She could still turn back. But something in her refused to run.

With a deep breath, she knocked on the door three times. The sound echoed in the stillness. Seconds stretched into eternity before the door creaked open.

The woman who answered was older than Eve expected, but she had aged gracefully. Her silver-streaked hair was neatly styled, and though faint lines traced her face, there was an elegance in her posture. A familiarity lingered in her eyes — a reflection of Eve’s own. For a moment, neither spoke.

Loren frowned, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Can I help you?”

Eve’s mouth went dry. She had rehearsed this, but now the words stuck. “I… I found your name. In my father’s things. You’re Loren Baker, aren’t you?”

Loren’s face paled. Her hand gripped the doorframe, as though steadying herself. For a moment, she said nothing — only stared, disbelief flickering across her face.

“I am.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “And you are?”

“Eve,” she said, her throat tightening. “Eve Leakes. Samuel’s daughter. Your daughter.”

Loren’s eyes widened. She blinked rapidly, her lips parted in silent shock.

“Eve…” Her voice faltered. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

Inside, the house was small and cluttered, but not unkempt. The furniture was worn, the air tinged with the scent of old books and lavender. A dusty cross hung above the mantle. Family photographs lined the shelves, though none bore Eve’s face.

Loren gestured for her to sit, but Eve remained standing. Her eyes flicked around the room, searching for signs of the woman who had disappeared from her life.

“I suppose you want answers,” Loren said softly.

“I do.” Eve’s voice was steady, though her chest ached. “Why did you leave? Why did you just… disappear?”

Loren clasped her trembling hands together. “Your father. He was a good man in many ways. But his drinking… it consumed him.”

Eve stiffened. The words didn’t fit. Her father had always been steady — a quiet, dependable man. She searched her memories for any signs she might have missed, but there were none. No bottles tucked away, no slurred words or stumbling steps. He was the man who read her bedtime stories, the one who held her when nightmares crept in.

"He wasn’t a drinker," Eve said firmly, shaking her head. "My father wasn’t like that."

But even as the words left her mouth, something stirred. A memory — faint but persistent. The tension in his jaw when he thought she wasn’t looking. The closed door of his study. The way he sometimes spoke with a rough edge, regret flickering in his eyes.

Had she only seen what she wanted to see?

Loren’s eyes were full of sorrow. “I prayed for that. I prayed he’d change.” She paused. “But when I left, he wasn’t a man who could be reasoned with. I thought leaving you with him would be safer than staying. I thought I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” Eve’s voice cracked. “You left me with a man you claim was a drunk? And then what? You disappeared?”

Loren’s tears brimmed, but she didn’t look away. “I thought if I stayed away, it would give you a chance at a better life. But every day, I regretted it. I watched from a distance. I wrote letters I never sent. I was afraid you’d hate me.”

Eve clenched her fists. “You’re right. I do. And I hate that I do.”

The words struck like a slap, but Loren didn’t flinch. “I understand.”

That night, alone in her childhood room, Eve paced. She opened drawers, pulled old photo albums from the shelves, searching for answers. But there were none. Only faded pictures of a smiling father, a little girl on his shoulders.

On the nightstand, a small Bible sat untouched. A gift from her father when she turned sixteen. She traced her fingers over the cracked leather, the memory tugging at her. She opened it without thinking.

A faint underline marked a single verse:

"Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." (Ephesians 4:32)

Forgiveness. The word gnawed at her. Could she even fathom what that meant?

The next morning, Eve stood at Loren’s door once more. She didn’t bring flowers or gifts. Just herself.

Loren opened the door, surprise flickering across her face.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you all at once,” Eve said, her voice steady. “But I’m willing to try. It’s going to take time. And I don’t know what that looks like.”

Loren’s face crumpled with relief, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

They stood there, two broken souls finding the first threads of healing. And in that moment, Eve felt something shift. The bitterness loosened its grip, and a quiet whisper stirred in her heart.

"Thank You, Lord."

Echoes of Faith: The Gift of Time| Short Fiction

 

 

 

The Gift of Time

Monica Carson had it all—at least on paper. Senior Vice President at a prestigious marketing firm, a penthouse with panoramic city views, and a wardrobe that would make any influencer jealous. Her days were a blur of meetings, client calls, and deadlines. Time, to Monica, was currency—measured in productivity and profit.

But life, as it often does, had plans that didn’t care about schedules.

It started with a voicemail from her mother. “Hey sweetie, I hate to ask, but Grandma's not doing well. The doctors say it’s time she’s not alone anymore. Can you come down? I know you’re busy, but... it’s important.”

Monica stared at the message for days before calling back. “Just a few weeks,” she told herself. “I’ll work remotely, check in on Grandma, and be back in the city before the next big campaign launches.”

She packed her designer suitcase and flew to Oakridge, the small southern town where she’d spent summers as a child. It had been years since she’d stepped into her grandmother’s creaky old farmhouse, filled with the scent of lavender and memories. Time seemed slower there. Softer.

Her grandmother, Miss Lillian Grant, was 84 and frail, but her spirit remained sharp.

“Well, look who the wind blew in,” she smiled weakly from her recliner. “You’ve been running so fast, baby, I’m surprised you remembered how to stop.”

Monica offered a tight smile. “I’m here now, Grandma. Just for a little while.”

Miss Lillian chuckled softly, then added, “You know, when I get overwhelmed, I still go to my little prayer chair and talk to the Lord. Been doing that since before your mama was born.”

Monica smiled politely, unsure how to respond. She’d left prayer behind somewhere between boardroom deals and airport lounges.

But a little while turned into something more.

At first, Monica tried to keep her usual routine—emails by dawn, Zoom calls by noon, and reports by night. But the rural Wi-Fi had its own plans. Dropped connections. Frozen screens. Missed meetings. Frustrated, Monica slammed her laptop shut one evening and sighed loudly. “Unbelievable.”

Miss Lillian, sitting nearby, looked up from her knitting. “You know, sugar, when you were little, you used to run around this house barefoot, chasing fireflies and laughing like nothing in the world could touch you.”

“I don’t have time for fireflies anymore,” Monica muttered.

“That’s the problem,” her grandmother replied softly.

Over the next few days, Monica began waking up later. She’d cook breakfast—actual food, not protein bars—and sit with her grandmother by the window, watching the morning light dance on the porch. They talked. About the weather. About old memories. About nothing—and everything.

As the days turned into weeks, Monica found herself immersed in a world she had long forgotten. She helped her grandmother tend to the garden, feeling the earth between her fingers and the sun on her face. She listened to Miss Lillian's stories of youth, love, and loss, realizing there was a depth to her grandmother she had never truly seen before.

One afternoon, as they sat on the porch swing, rocking gently back and forth, Miss Lillian turned to Monica with a knowing smile. "You know, child, life ain't just about the hustle and bustle. Sometimes you gotta slow down and appreciate the beauty right in front of you."

Monica felt a pang of guilt wash over her. All this time, she had been chasing success and validation, thinking it was the key to happiness. But here, in Oakridge, surrounded by simplicity and love, she found a peace she had been missing for so long.

One afternoon, as they shelled peas together in the backyard, Miss Lillian chuckled. “Remember when you tried to cook dinner for me when you were seven?”

Monica laughed. “I set the kitchen towels on fire trying to boil water.”

“That you did,” her grandmother grinned. “But you were so proud. You brought me toast and a slice of cheese on a plate like it was a five-star meal.”

Monica smiled. “You ate every bite.”

“Because it wasn’t about the food,” Miss Lillian said, her voice turning tender. “It was about your heart.”

That night, Monica sat alone on the porch, staring at the stars. For the first time in years, she realized how long it had been since she’d slowed down enough to look up.

Every day became more valuable as she spent time with her grandmother. She mastered baking sweet potato pie exactly the way Miss Lillian preferred. She also assisted in watering the roses her grandfather had planted many years before. They even enjoyed playing dominoes together on Sunday afternoons, just like in the past.

In the stillness of Oakridge, Monica began to hear again—not just the birds, or the ticking of the old clock, but the echo of her own soul.

One evening, Miss Lillian didn’t come down for dinner. Monica found her asleep in her chair, a Bible open on her lap. She gently knelt beside her.

“You okay, Grandma?”

Miss Lillian slowly opened her eyes. "Just feeling tired, sweetheart," she said, giving her hand a gentle pat.

Monica’s hand felt the warmth of her grandmother's touch, a soft and gentle pat, a reminder of the love and connection between them.

Monica helped her to bed, tucked her in, and sat by her side. The air was thick with emotion.

“You’ve changed,” Miss Lillian whispered, brushing Monica’s cheek.

Monica nodded. “I didn’t know how much I was missing… until I came here.”

Miss Lillian reached for her hand. “Time is a gift, Monica. You can chase success your whole life, but it won’t hold your hand when you’re old. It won’t pray with you. It won’t remember how your laugh sounds. But people will.”

Tears welled in Monica’s eyes. “I thought I was giving up time by coming here,” she said. “But I was actually gaining it.”

Miss Lillian smiled faintly, and that night, she slept peacefully.

A week later, Miss Lillian passed away in her sleep.

In the days that followed, the house felt quieter, the silences heavier. Monica found herself moving through the rooms with care, as if her grandmother’s presence still lingered in every corner. There was grief, yes—but also gratitude. Gratitude for the time they’d shared and the healing it had brought.

The funeral was small but filled with love, the townspeople coming together to honor the life of Miss Lillian Grant. Monica stood beside her grandmother's grave, tears streaming down her face as she whispered a final goodbye. Memories flooded her—sipping coffee on the porch in the morning, singing in the kitchen, and the wise advice shared in quiet moments.

After the service, she stayed in Oakridge. Not out of obligation, but out of calling. She took a sabbatical from work. Started volunteering at the community center. Planted a garden in her grandmother’s memory. And every evening, she sat on the porch, just like they used to.

Her phone rang one morning—her boss, asking when she’d return.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said, her voice calm. “I’m discovering something here. Something important.”

In the months that followed, Monica remained in Oakridge. She kept the garden blooming, just like Miss Lillian used to. She opened the front porch to neighbors who needed someone to talk to. Some days, she’d find herself baking sweet potato pie and setting out two plates, out of habit and love.

She didn’t need a grand plan. The house itself had become a place of peace—one quiet moment at a time.

Sometimes, when someone passing through town would sit with her for a while, Monica would share her story. “I used to think success was measured in numbers,” she’d say, her eyes soft. “But I’ve learned it’s really measured in moments—those quiet, sacred seconds where love lives.”

And in that little farmhouse, Monica Carson chose to slow down. Not because she had to. But because Miss Lillian taught her the secret: Time is not something to manage.  It’s something to cherish.