It was raining that night—one of those Maplewood rains that didn't ask for permission, just came pouring down as if the sky itself needed to cry.
Daniel sat alone in his small apartment, the dim glow of a single lamp stretching his shadow across the wooden floor. He was reading an old Bible, though not truly reading—his eyes were on the pages, but his mind was lost somewhere else.
The stranger's words still echoed inside him.
> "If sin can take root, so can grace…"
He had tried to shake them off, but they clung to him like wet clothes. Every verse he turned to seemed to mock him—David's confession, Peter's denial, Judas' remorse. There was no comfort to be found that night.
Then came the knock.
It was soft, hesitant.
Three times.
Then silence.
Daniel frowned. No one ever visited him after dark.
When he opened the door, there was no one there. Just the wind, howling through the narrow street. He stepped outside, looked both ways, and was about to close the door when his eyes caught something near the threshold—a soaked envelope lying against the step.
No name on the front. No address. Just one word scrawled in faded blue ink.
> "Daniel."
His breath caught.
He closed the door and tore it open carefully, the paper fragile from the rain. Inside was a single folded sheet. He recognized the handwriting immediately—neat, curved letters that carried the scent of memory.
Rebecca.
His hands trembled as he unfolded it.
> "Daniel,"
I don't know if you'll ever read this. Maybe it's better if you don't. But I need to write it, if only to breathe again.
Sometimes I see the child's face in my dreams. I can't remember their cry anymore, but I remember the silence that followed. I wonder if they have your eyes.
You said it was protection, and for a long time, I believed you. But every time I close my eyes, I hear that baby's breath, and I know—what we did wasn't protection. It was betrayal. Not just of the child. Not just of God. Of ourselves.
I've prayed for forgiveness every day since. But forgiveness feels like a door I can't find.
If you ever read this, Daniel, I want you to know… I don't hate you. I just can't stop hating myself.
—Rebecca**
The paper fell from his hands.
He sat there, staring at the floor, the rain still hammering against the windows. The sound reminded him of that night—the night they made the choice that ruined them both.
The room felt smaller now. The walls pressed closer. The light flickered.
And then, just before the flame in the lamp went out, he whispered something he hadn't said in years.
"God… are You still listening?"
Outside, the storm answered for Him—with a sound that could have been thunder… or mercy.