The weight of Gabriel's words gave me strength, but it also attracted shadows. The more I spoke, the more whispers circled in the village. Not everyone welcomed my presence, and the line between belief and hostility grew sharper each day.
One evening, as Samuel and I returned from the farmland, we saw two men standing near the edge of the path. They whispered until we approached, then grew silent. I greeted them, but they offered no reply, only cold stares that followed us until we passed.
Samuel shook his head. "People fear what they cannot understand," he muttered.
That night, as we sat at the table, Grace spoke what had been weighing on her heart. "Alfred," she said gently, "I believe you are sent, but others in the village do not see as I do. Some think you bring trouble. I have heard them say your presence will invite calamity."
Her words stung, though I did not blame her for voicing them. I lowered my eyes and replied, "Even the prophets were called troublemakers. If truth disturbs the comfortable, then perhaps that is its purpose."
The days that followed were filled with tension. Some families came secretly to seek my prayers. A mother brought her sick child, asking if I would intercede. I laid hands and prayed, and within days, the boy was walking again. Word spread quickly, and those who doubted began to speak in hushed tones about miracles.
But not all were convinced. Elias, the elder, returned once more. He came to Samuel's house while I was outside teaching Ruth and Mary a simple hymn. His voice was low, but I overheard.
"Samuel," he said, "you are my friend, and I respect your judgment. But beware of this stranger. Miracles can deceive. Even false prophets can heal. Watch him closely."
Samuel defended me, though his voice carried uncertainty. "I have seen Alfred's heart. He seeks no gain, only to warn."
Elias sighed. "Perhaps. But until time proves him, keep your eyes open."
Those words lingered in Samuel's house long after Elias left. That night, I felt distance in Samuel's tone, though he tried to hide it. Doubt was creeping, like a shadow stretching across the heart.
I prayed fervently, asking God for wisdom. As I knelt, a vision unfolded before me. I saw a vast field at night, filled with people carrying lamps. Some lamps shone brightly, others flickered weakly, and many had already gone out. A voice spoke: "The lamps are the hearts of men. Some will burn till the trumpet, others will fade into darkness."
I woke trembling. The meaning was clear: not everyone would endure, and not everyone would believe.
The following day, while walking through the marketplace, a group of young men confronted me. One stepped forward, his tone sharp. "You call yourself a messenger. Then prove it. Show us a sign from heaven."
The crowd around us grew tense. I prayed silently, then replied, "It is not for man to command signs from God. Signs follow faith, but faith does not follow signs."
They laughed and mocked. "He has nothing," one shouted. "Just empty words!"
But as they turned to leave, an old woman who had been listening spoke up. "Empty words? Then how did my grandson rise from his bed after he prayed? You mock because you fear."
The market fell into silence. The young men scowled, but they had no answer. They dispersed, muttering under their breath.
That evening, Samuel confessed his struggle. "Alfred, I want to believe fully, but Elias' words ring in my ears. How do I silence the doubts?"
I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Samuel, doubt is not a sin. But when it rules the heart, it blinds. Ask God for light, and He will give it. My mission is not to convince every mind, but to awaken every soul willing to hear."
His eyes softened, and he nodded slowly. Yet I knew the battle was not over. Shadows of doubt had already begun their work in the village, and the days ahead would reveal who truly stood in the light.