Echoes of Faith: Unbroken Bonds| Short Fiction

 

Unbroken Bonds

It had been three months since Eli’s father died. The once energetic 16-year-old now felt like a shadow of himself. Since losing his father, he had withdrawn from life, avoiding friends, skipping meals, and ignoring his mother’s worried glances.

He stared at the basketball that sat in the corner of his room. Its once vibrant orange color now seemed dull and lifeless, much like Eli felt inside. He reached out a hand to pick it up, his fingers brushing against the worn leather. Memories flooded back to him—shooting hoops with his dad after school, the laughter and joy that used to fill their backyard.

Taking a deep breath, Eli stood up from his bed and grabbed the basketball. With a sense of determination he hadn’t felt in months, he headed outside to the backyard court. The sound of the ball bouncing on the pavement echoed in the quiet afternoon air—a sound that used to bring Eli so much happiness.

As he started dribbling and shooting, each movement felt awkward and unfamiliar. But with each miss, he could hear his father’s voice in his head, encouraging him to keep trying. Tears welled up in Eli’s eyes as he realized that even though his father was gone, his presence would always be with him on this court. Yet, it wasn’t the same without him.

His mother appeared at the edge of the yard, her expression gentle but concerned. She walked closer, her voice soft. "Eli, there’s a program at the community center that might be helpful for you. They have therapy dogs and—"

“I’m fine, Mom,” he snapped. But he wasn’t fine, and he knew it.

She reached out a hand to gently touch his arm, a silent gesture of understanding and support. “I know you miss him, Eli,” she said softly. “I do too. It’s okay to not be fine. Think about the therapy dog program. I think it could really help you.”

After several weeks of coaxing, Eli finally agreed to visit the center, though he doubted it would help. He entered the room filled with chatter and wagging tails, feeling out of place. That’s when he saw Winston.

Winston, a golden retriever with warm brown eyes that seemed to see right into his soul, approached Eli and sat down at his feet. His tail wagged softly against the floor. Eli paused before gently petting Winston's head. It was the first touch of warmth he had felt in months, and it brought him a sense of comfort and peace.

From that day forward, Winston became a steady, silent presence in Eli’s life.

One afternoon, Eli was brushing Winston's golden fur when his mother arrived at the center and quietly sat beside him on the bench. She watched for a moment before speaking softly. "He really seems to like you."

Eli shrugged, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "He doesn’t expect anything from me," he replied. "No questions, no pity."

His mother reached over and squeezed his hand. "Neither do I, Eli. I just want you to be okay."

For the first time in months, Eli felt the urge to believe her words. Each visit to the center chipped away at his wall. The dog didn’t ask questions or offer platitudes—he just stayed by Eli’s side, his presence a balm to old wounds.

Eli began volunteering, brushing Winston’s golden fur and helping with other animals. Slowly, the routine gave him a sense of purpose. Yet, no matter how much Winston helped him feel safe, Eli couldn’t shake his anger at God. If God was loving, why had He taken Eli’s father away?

One evening, Eli sat on the porch with Winston, staring at the stars. “Do you think God even listens?” he whispered. Winston nudged his hand, as if to say yes.

The sky was a deep navy, adorned with shimmering stars that seemed to twinkle in response to Eli's inquisitive stare. In the faraway distance, the moon presented itself as a delicate silver crescent, casting a soft radiance over the backyard.

Just when Eli started to feel optimistic again, life presented another challenge. Winston fell ill and became lethargic, refusing to eat. Desperate to help his beloved pet, Eli stayed by his side, gently stroking his fur and struggling to hold back tears.

“Don’t leave me too,” he pleaded.

Tears streamed down Eli's face as he dropped to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him in an expression of desperation. His eyes were red and puffy, his gaze fixed on the trembling form of his sick dog.

For the first time in a long time, he prayed. “God, I don’t know if You hear me. But if You do, please don’t take him away. I can’t lose him too.”

The weight of desperation and raw emotion bore down on Eli's bowed frame as he pleaded with a higher power. The stars above seemed to hold their breath in anticipation, waiting for a response to his heartfelt prayer.

As the days passed, Winston began to recover, his tail wagging weakly at first, then with growing strength. Eli couldn’t explain it, but he felt peace—like someone had been listening all along.

Eli’s bond with Winston had transformed him. He began sharing his story with others at the center, offering hope to kids who felt lost like he once had. Through volunteering, mentoring, and helping care for animals, Eli found purpose again. He even joined a community basketball league, rediscovering his passion for the game. With each practice, his confidence grew, and he felt his father’s presence in every shot he took.

One evening, after winning his first game, Eli sat in the backyard with Winston under the stars.

“We did it, boy,” he said, rubbing Winston’s ears. "Dad would be proud."

Winston wagged his tail as if he understood, and Eli let the tears fall—not from sadness this time, but from gratitude. In the quiet of the backyard, Eli knelt down and hugged Winston tightly, whispering, “Thank you for showing me how to hope again.” As he looked up at the sky, Eli felt the weight he had carried for so long finally lifting, replaced by a quiet faith that he was no longer alone.

Echoes of Faith: A Life Redeemed| Short Fiction

 

A Life Redeemed

Caleb Raeford gripped the railings of the prison bus as it rattled toward the city. His stomach churned, but he fixed his eyes on the horizon, refusing to look back.

He had dreamed of this moment for twelve years. Now that it was here, it didn’t feel real.

The driver pulled up outside the station and opened the door. “This is it, Raeford. Good luck out there.”

Caleb stepped down, duffel bag in hand, and adjusted the Bible tucked under his arm. The world felt bigger than he remembered—louder, faster—but he was determined not to let it swallow him whole.

The he saw him—Marcus Gamble, leaning against a lamppost like a shadow Caleb couldn’t outrun.

A cigarette dangled from Marcus’s lips. He looked like a man who’d never spent a day behind bars, though Caleb knew better.

“Look who made it out,” Marcus said with a grin.

Caleb’s stomach tightened. “What do you want?”

Marcus flicked ash onto the sidewalk. “Relax. Just came to offer you a deal—quick job, big payout. No guns, no mess.”

Caleb clenched his jaw. “Man, I just got off the bus, and you’re already talking about a job? I’m not that guy anymore.”

Marcus smirked. “You sure about that? You’ve got nothing—no job, no money. Think that Bible’s gonna keep you fed? Faith doesn’t pay rent.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Sure you will.” Marcus’s grin faded. “But here’s the thing—I still know people. And they still think you’re guilty. Wouldn’t take much to make them believe it again.”

Caleb’s chest tightened. “You’d frame me?”

Marcus stepped closer. “Call it incentive. You owe me, Raeford. Time to pay up.”

“I just paid with twelve years of my life.”

Marcus shrugged, flicking his cigarette. “Your loss. Don’t be surprised when the cops come looking for you again.”

He walked away, leaving Caleb staring after him.

The pull of the past was strong, but Caleb refused to let it win. He turned toward the halfway house, determined to leave Marcus behind.

Ten minutes later, Caleb stepped into his room, his duffel bag heavy in his hand. The smell of bleach and burnt coffee hit him in the face, but at least it was clean.

A man sat on the opposite bed, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with weary eyes but a steady presence.

Caleb set his bag down and sank onto his bed, staring at the cross nailed above the door.

God, I need You. I don’t know how to do this.

The man shifted, breaking the silence. “Rough day?”

Caleb turned to him, startled by how calm he seemed. “Something like that.”

“First day out’s always the hardest,” the man said, his voice steady but kind. “But you made it this far. That counts for something.”

Caleb studied him for a moment. “You been here long?”

“Long enough.” The man extended his hand. “Jonah.”

“Caleb.”

Jonah gave him a firm shake. “You’re in good hands here. We’ve all got our stories, but we’ve also got each other.”

Jonah leaned back again, folding his arms. “You fight for this second chance, or you let it slip through your fingers.”

Jonah hesitated, then added, “I almost let mine slip.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Jonah glanced at the scar running down his arm. “I did eight years. Got out thinking the world owed me something. Slipped up again—just enough to land back in this place. But I figured out something this time around.”

“What’s that?”

“That the only way to change is to stop looking back.” Jonah smiled faintly. “The way I see it, you already started. Now you just gotta keep going.”

Caleb let the words settle as he glanced again at the cross above the door. He didn’t know if he had the strength to fight—but he knew he wasn’t ready to give up.

A couple of days later, Caleb was sweeping the floors when the cops came looking for him.

He saw them through the glass doors—two uniforms with unreadable expressions. The broom slipped from his hands, clattering against the tiles.

“Caleb Raeford?”

He froze. “Yeah?”

“There’s been a robbery at a pawnshop two blocks down from here. Witnesses placed you at the scene.”

“It wasn’t me,” Caleb said quickly. “I’ve got no reason to go back to that life.”

The officers exchanged a look. “Then you won’t mind going down to the station to answer some questions.”

As they led him outside, Caleb’s stomach sank. Across the street, Marcus leaned casually against a post, that same smug smirk plastered on his face.

Minutes later, the squad car jolted as it pulled into the station. The officers led him down a narrow hallway and into a dimly lit interrogation room.

Caleb sat across from the detective, palms pressed against the cool metal table, his heart hammering.

Hours dragged by before the detective’s radio crackled. A voice confirmed Caleb’s alibi—security footage showed him mopping floors at the Halfway house during the robbery.

The detective leaned back. “Looks like you’re clear—for now. Don’t leave town.”

Relief washed over Caleb, but anger simmered beneath it. Marcus had tried to bury him again.

An hour later, Caleb’s footsteps echoed in the community room where the Halfway house ran its meetings. Folding chairs lined the walls, and a coffee pot gurgled in the corner.

Aaron, a former gang member who ran the program, clapped Caleb on the back. “You ready to deliver your first speech?”

If he was bothered by him being taken to the station he didn't show it. Caleb nodded, though his stomach felt tight. He’d volunteered to speak at the support meeting that night, but doubts crept in. What could he offer these people?

His gaze settled on a teenager lingering near the door, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, and Caleb recognized the look—anger tangled with fear.

“You new here?” Caleb asked.

The boy glanced up but didn’t answer.

“I'm Caleb," he said, extending his hand.

After a pause, the boy shook it. “Jesse.”

“Glad you came, Jesse.”

The boy shrugged. “Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Aaron gave Caleb a look that said, Talk to him.

Caleb pulled Jesse aside. “Listen, I know what it’s like to feel trapped—to think you’re out of chances. But you’re not. God doesn’t stop working, even when it feels like He has.”

Jesse studied the floor. “Yeah? What do you know about it?”

Caleb opened his Bible. “I know because I’ve been there.”

Jesse looked away but didn’t leave. It was a start, Caleb thought.

A week later, Caleb found Jesse pacing outside the halfway house.

“What’s wrong?”

Jesse rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Caleb’s gaze. “Marcus.”

Caleb’s stomach dropped. “You know him?”

“He offered me a job,” Jesse muttered, his voice low. “Said it’d be easy money.”

Caleb’s pulse quickened. Marcus hadn’t given up—he’d just found a new target.

“Did you take it?”

Jesse hesitated. “I’m thinking about it.”

Caleb stepped closer. “You need to stay away from him,” he said, his voice sharp. “He’s bad news.”

Jesse’s jaw tightened. Without another word, he turned and stormed off.

Caleb thought about Marcus’s threats and the false accusations that had nearly sent him back to prison. He didn’t have an answer, but he knew this—he wasn’t going to let Marcus ruin another life.

Later that night, long after the halfway house had gone quiet, Caleb lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Jesse’s words echoed in his head.

He threw on his jacket and went looking for Jesse.

Caleb checked alleys, bus stops, and street corners. Hours dragged by, and with each dead end, his chest tightened.

What if I’m too late? What if he’s already in too deep?

Finally, he spotted Jesse behind the wheel of a parked car in front of a pawnshop, his hands gripping the steering wheel—knuckles white and trembling."

Caleb ran to the car and banged on the window. “Jesse!”

Jesse jumped, rolling down the window. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you that.” Caleb grabbed the door and pulled it open. “Get out.”

Jesse shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Caleb said, voice sharp. “You’re still here, which means it’s not too late. But once you go through with this, there’s no coming back.”

Suddenly, shouting erupted from inside the pawnshop.

The door burst open, and Marcus stumbled out, a bag clutched tightly in his hands. His eyes darted to Caleb and then to Jesse, panic flickering across his face before twisting into anger.

“You brought him here?” Marcus hissed.

“Let him go, Marcus.”

Marcus sneered. “You don’t get to make demands.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, and red and blue lights flickered across the windows. Marcus’s expression twisted into panic."

“You set me up!”

“No,” Caleb said. “You set yourself up.”

Marcus dropped the bag and raised his hands as the police swarmed in.

The cops cuffed Marcus, and Caleb turned to Jesse. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Later that night, Jesse sat slumped in a chair, shoulders sagging. Caleb slid a chair beside him.

“You didn’t do it,” Caleb said. “That’s what matters.”

“But I almost did,” Jesse muttered.

Caleb shook his head. “You walked away. That shows me something. You’re not lost, Jesse. You just needed someone to remind you who you are.”

Sunday rolled around, and Caleb stood in front of the group while Jesse sat in the front row, leaning forward

Caleb took a deep breath.

“When I got out, I thought freedom would be easy. But real freedom is a fight.”

He paused.

“You’re not defined by where you’ve been. You’re defined by who you choose to be now.”

Jesse wiped his eyes, and Caleb smiled.

“This isn’t the end of my story—and it’s not the end of yours, either.”