“Don’t cry, Ima. Someone will catch you if you fall.”
Her neighbor’s hand trembled on her back, guiding her toward the city gate. But she didn’t stumble. She wouldn’t let herself. Not until the earth took the only thing left of her.
The wailing followed her like a shadow—echoing off stone, aching in her bones. She didn't hear her own voice among them. She hadn't made a sound since they wrapped his body in linen.
Nain’s gate loomed close. Just there. Just beyond it. And then the dirt could have him.
He was all she had.
She had buried her husband in this same valley thirteen years ago. The sun had been gentler then. Her son, just a boy clinging to her hand, had watched the ground swallow what he barely understood.
Now the boy had become a man.
And died.
A carpenter’s cough, they’d said. Then fever. Then silence.
She clutched the front of her robe. It was soaked. Her fingers smelled of oil and ash from the preparation. The road beneath her feet blurred.
And then the procession stopped.
Not because they reached the gate—but because someone stood in front of it.
A traveler. Dusty from the road. The kind they usually stepped around. But he didn’t move. Steadfast, still, eyes on her. And the people around her were quiet now—so quiet. As if something had brushed apart the veil of mourning and entered without asking.
He walked to her. Just... walked. As if he bore none of the fear men carried around death.
She squinted, confused by the stillness in him. His face was sun-browned, eyes dark and alive. He could have been from any of a dozen villages.
But his gaze held her like a hand to the shoulder.
He stopped in front of her bier, eyes flicking briefly—tenderly—toward the cloth covering her son’s face.
Then his voice.
“Do not weep.”
She blinked. Her lips barely moved. “He’s gone.”
He stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing the edge of the timbers the men bore. One of them shifted his grip, uncertain. No one spoke.
The man reached up and touched the frame.
A breath of wind stirred the edge of the cloth. Then a sudden swell, like the earth itself was drawing breath.
The body moved.
Gasps from the pallbearers. A hand twitched under the linen. Then fingers, curling, lifting.
The cloth slipped from her son's face.
His eyes opened.
She choked on the scream in her throat. His lips moved, cracked and dry—he looked around like someone waking from the bottom of a deep well.
“Ina?”
Her legs gave way. The neighbor caught her.
He sat up. Slowly. Muscles trembling, like they remembered their weight. She reached out before she could think, hands searching—not for his face, not for proof—but for the scar near his collarbone where the goat had kicked him as a boy.
It was there.
His hand closed around hers.
Then, behind her, voices—rising. Some crying. Some gasping in awe. Others whispering “prophet,” “from God,” “visited his people.”
But she had no words.
The man—the stranger—was gone from the bier. Standing apart now, watching. No triumph in his stance. Just stillness. Whatever he’d done, he had not done it for applause.
She turned toward him, lips parted, utterly hollowed and filled at once.
He nodded at her son, then met her eyes.
And smiled.
She never asked his name.
“Don’t cry, Ima. Someone will catch you if you fall.”
Her neighbor’s hand trembled on her back, guiding her toward the city gate. But she didn’t stumble. She wouldn’t let herself. Not until the earth took the only thing left of her.
The wailing followed her like a shadow—echoing off stone, aching in her bones. She didn't hear her own voice among them. She hadn't made a sound since they wrapped his body in linen.
Nain’s gate loomed close. Just there. Just beyond it. And then the dirt could have him.
He was all she had.
She had buried her husband in this same valley thirteen years ago. The sun had been gentler then. Her son, just a boy clinging to her hand, had watched the ground swallow what he barely understood.
Now the boy had become a man.
And died.
A carpenter’s cough, they’d said. Then fever. Then silence.
She clutched the front of her robe. It was soaked. Her fingers smelled of oil and ash from the preparation. The road beneath her feet blurred.
And then the procession stopped.
Not because they reached the gate—but because someone stood in front of it.
A traveler. Dusty from the road. The kind they usually stepped around. But he didn’t move. Steadfast, still, eyes on her. And the people around her were quiet now—so quiet. As if something had brushed apart the veil of mourning and entered without asking.
He walked to her. Just... walked. As if he bore none of the fear men carried around death.
She squinted, confused by the stillness in him. His face was sun-browned, eyes dark and alive. He could have been from any of a dozen villages.
But his gaze held her like a hand to the shoulder.
He stopped in front of her bier, eyes flicking briefly—tenderly—toward the cloth covering her son’s face.
Then his voice.
“Do not weep.”
She blinked. Her lips barely moved. “He’s gone.”
He stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing the edge of the timbers the men bore. One of them shifted his grip, uncertain. No one spoke.
The man reached up and touched the frame.
A breath of wind stirred the edge of the cloth. Then a sudden swell, like the earth itself was drawing breath.
The body moved.
Gasps from the pallbearers. A hand twitched under the linen. Then fingers, curling, lifting.
The cloth slipped from her son's face.
His eyes opened.
She choked on the scream in her throat. His lips moved, cracked and dry—he looked around like someone waking from the bottom of a deep well.
“Ina?”
Her legs gave way. The neighbor caught her.
He sat up. Slowly. Muscles trembling, like they remembered their weight. She reached out before she could think, hands searching—not for his face, not for proof—but for the scar near his collarbone where the goat had kicked him as a boy.
It was there.
His hand closed around hers.
Then, behind her, voices—rising. Some crying. Some gasping in awe. Others whispering “prophet,” “from God,” “visited his people.”
But she had no words.
The man—the stranger—was gone from the bier. Standing apart now, watching. No triumph in his stance. Just stillness. Whatever he’d done, he had not done it for applause.
She turned toward him, lips parted, utterly hollowed and filled at once.
He nodded at her son, then met her eyes.
And smiled.
She never asked his name.
