The alley behind Jerusalem’s upper market stank of fish broth and crushed olives, but it offered a hiding place—at least for now. Miriam pressed her back against the stones and tried to slow her breathing. Roman soldiers hadn’t followed her, but that didn’t stop the fear from clawing up her throat. She clutched the worn satchel over her shoulder—the one holding the scroll.
She hadn’t meant to steal it. Her uncle, a scribe in the temple courts, said it was cursed. "Too holy for hands like ours," he’d whispered before hiding it in their home. And when they came—temple guards in red sashes, claiming it belonged only to the elders—her instincts took over. She ran.
Now, the scroll trembled in her hands, sealed and silent. She’d seen its strange markings once; her uncle said the words were not meant for just anyone to see. “Only One can open it,” he had said, “and He is not yet known.”
Miriam didn’t understand what that meant. But her hands burned to open it anyway—not out of greed, but desperation. Her mother had died the year before, wasting away without explanation. Her prayers never brought answers, only silence. She’d begged the temple priests for guidance, but they offered rituals, not comfort. If this scroll held truth from heaven, she needed it.
Hosanna cries rang out in the distance—another procession of fanatics praising the wandering rabbi. She almost laughed. What King came riding on a donkey?
The noise grew closer. She shrank back, ready to hide deeper in the alley… but then the crowd parted.
He came around the corner slowly, quietly—the man from Galilee. Not as tall as she imagined, but there was authority in how he walked, like even the heel of his sandal knew where it belonged. Their eyes met.
Miriam froze.
He came straight to her.
Her first instinct was to hide the scroll, but her hands refused. Instead, she held it before him like a child surrendering stolen bread.
His eyes moved from the scroll up to hers.
“You carry what others feared,” he said. His voice was gentler than she thought it would be. “Why?”
“I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought it might answer me.”
“To what question?”
“Why He doesn’t speak. Why He feels so far. Why my prayers fall empty.”
A silence fell between them, thick as desert heat. Then—
“May I?”
She nodded.
He took the scroll in his hands. One by one, the seals gave way, not with force—but as if they had waited for Him since time was born. As He read, a heat bloomed across her chest—not shame, but release. The ache, the confusion, the silence—it lifted, replaced with something steady and alive. Tears spilled, unexpected.
“You were waiting, too,” she whispered.
He looked up, the scroll now open, its words glowing in sunlight. “I was never far.”
She believed Him.
Not because He proved it—but because when He looked at her, every question ceased needing an answer.
She exhaled.
For the first time in years, the silence inside her was gone.
The alley behind Jerusalem’s upper market stank of fish broth and crushed olives, but it offered a hiding place—at least for now. Miriam pressed her back against the stones and tried to slow her breathing. Roman soldiers hadn’t followed her, but that didn’t stop the fear from clawing up her throat. She clutched the worn satchel over her shoulder—the one holding the scroll.
She hadn’t meant to steal it. Her uncle, a scribe in the temple courts, said it was cursed. "Too holy for hands like ours," he’d whispered before hiding it in their home. And when they came—temple guards in red sashes, claiming it belonged only to the elders—her instincts took over. She ran.
Now, the scroll trembled in her hands, sealed and silent. She’d seen its strange markings once; her uncle said the words were not meant for just anyone to see. “Only One can open it,” he had said, “and He is not yet known.”
Miriam didn’t understand what that meant. But her hands burned to open it anyway—not out of greed, but desperation. Her mother had died the year before, wasting away without explanation. Her prayers never brought answers, only silence. She’d begged the temple priests for guidance, but they offered rituals, not comfort. If this scroll held truth from heaven, she needed it.
Hosanna cries rang out in the distance—another procession of fanatics praising the wandering rabbi. She almost laughed. What King came riding on a donkey?
The noise grew closer. She shrank back, ready to hide deeper in the alley… but then the crowd parted.
He came around the corner slowly, quietly—the man from Galilee. Not as tall as she imagined, but there was authority in how he walked, like even the heel of his sandal knew where it belonged. Their eyes met.
Miriam froze.
He came straight to her.
Her first instinct was to hide the scroll, but her hands refused. Instead, she held it before him like a child surrendering stolen bread.
His eyes moved from the scroll up to hers.
“You carry what others feared,” he said. His voice was gentler than she thought it would be. “Why?”
“I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought it might answer me.”
“To what question?”
“Why He doesn’t speak. Why He feels so far. Why my prayers fall empty.”
A silence fell between them, thick as desert heat. Then—
“May I?”
She nodded.
He took the scroll in his hands. One by one, the seals gave way, not with force—but as if they had waited for Him since time was born. As He read, a heat bloomed across her chest—not shame, but release. The ache, the confusion, the silence—it lifted, replaced with something steady and alive. Tears spilled, unexpected.
“You were waiting, too,” she whispered.
He looked up, the scroll now open, its words glowing in sunlight. “I was never far.”
She believed Him.
Not because He proved it—but because when He looked at her, every question ceased needing an answer.
She exhaled.
For the first time in years, the silence inside her was gone.
