In the quiet corners of her room, she sits, Advanced years etched upon her skin, A tapestry of memories woven with threads of time, And in the hush of twilight, she begins.
“Are You there?” she asks, her voice a fragile echo, Her hands clasped, knuckles like ancient roots, The ceiling, a canvas for her whispered plea, As if God Himself might listen to her pursuits.
The dust motes dance in sunbeams, indifferent, Yet she persists, her faith unyielding, unworn, For she hasn’t prayed in a lit time— Not since her husband’s laughter adorned the morn.
“Dear God,” she murmurs, eyes tracing cracks, “Can You hear me? Do You know who I am?” Her memories blur—their edges softened by years, But she clings to them, like petals in a withered palm.
She recalls the church bells ringing on Sundays, Their peals like promises etched in stone, Her children’s laughter echoing through pews, And the scent of incense—a prayer of its own.
Her husband, oh, he was her psalm, her hymn, His smile, a benediction upon her days, They knelt side by side, hearts entwined, Their whispered petitions rising like smoke in praise.
But now, the silence stretches like a desert, And she wonders if God has forgotten her name, If He knows the lines etched upon her heart, Or if she’s become a faded note in His cosmic refrain.
“Are You there?” she asks again, her voice trembling, Her eyes seeking solace in the fading light, The room holds its breath, as if awaiting a reply, And she waits, her soul a fragile kite.
And then—a rustle, a whisper in the air, Not thunderous or grand, but a gentle breeze, The curtains sway, and she feels a touch, As if God Himself has knelt beside her knees.
“Child,” the wind murmurs, “I’ve known you well, Your laughter, your tears, your silent pleas, I’ve cradled your hopes, your fears, your dreams, And every whispered prayer upon the breeze.”
Tears blur her vision, and she nods, heart full, For in that moment, she knows—truly knows, That God, like a faithful gardener, tends to souls, Even when they forget the way back to His rose.
“Thank you,” she breathes, her voice a hymn, And the room sighs, as if the walls lean in, The dust motes settle, and the sun dips low, Her faith rekindled—a fragile, eternal flame within.
And so, she prays once more, not for herself, But for the world, the children, the broken sky, For in her whispered words, she finds communion, And God, in His quietude, whispers back, “I am nigh.”
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 4.0 International License.
May your whispered prayers find their way to the heavens, and may you know that you are heard. 🌟🕊️✨
Wicked Grim Stories 
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