The wind arrived first — a sudden, breathless gust that stirred the golden leaves under Leah’s feet, tossing her scarf around her neck like a playful sibling. She reached up absently to fix it, but her hands trembled too much. Another rejection letter was crumpled in her coat pocket, sharp against her fingertips, as though even the paper could pierce her today.
She sat heavily on the bench at the edge of the old park. It smelled of autumn: damp earth, fading roses, and the early promise of rain. The gray sky mirrored the fragile faith she carried in her chest, thin as tissue paper and just as torn. “I’m trying, Hashem,” she whispered. “Why do You feel so far?”
Children’s laughter bubbled from the playground nearby — bright as morning light breaking through clouds. Leah watched them from a distance, eyes dry and burning. Once, she'd played here too, arms swinging high into the blue, heart certain the world would catch her if she fell.
Now? Each unanswered prayer felt like a missed rung, a hand slipping, a fall.
She pressed her forehead against her folded hands. There were no perfect words; just scraps of prayer falling from her heart. I have nothing left... except what little I believe You still see me, still hear me.
A small sound tugged at her thoughts: light footsteps pattering across gravel. She lifted her head and saw a boy, maybe six or seven years old, struggling with something in his hands — a thick stem, a bundle of scraggly flowers, their yellow heads drooping.
Without a word, he approached, his little boots scuffing the path. Reaching out, he presented the tangled offering toward her chest, mouth set in concentration.
“For you,” he said simply.
Startled, Leah took the flowers, their stems cooled by the wind. They were imperfect: some petals torn, others brown at the edges. But as she cradled them, a scent rose — bitter-sweet gold, green sap, and the faint crispness of meadow air.
She’d done nothing to earn them. Nothing to deserve this pure kindness.
The boy smiled — a wide, gap-toothed grin — and ran back to the playground without waiting for thanks.
In the sudden space he left, a memory surfaced: her grandfather’s voice, warm under the stars at summer picnics. "Leah’leh," he'd murmur, "faith is like a little ember. Even when you can barely find it, even when it looks cold... if you breathe gently, it can catch fire again."
Her fingers tightened around the flowers. How often she thought faith had to be strong or not at all — bold, burning, constant. But maybe fragile faith still mattered. Maybe it was enough to sit here, clutching these small blessings, willing to breathe on the ember.
The words of Tehillim rose within her like a returning song: Hashem is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusted, and I was helped (Psalm 28:7).
No lightning split the sky. No booming voice answered. But the heaviness in her chest eased, just a little — enough to feel the breath move in and out, steady and real.
Leah tilted her head back. Above the skeletal trees, a scrap of blue had torn through the clouds. Small, steady light, a sky mending itself one soft stitch at a time.
Faith didn’t have to shout. It didn’t have to roar. It could be trembling hands accepting wildflowers from a stranger. It could be the quiet decision to stay in the world one more day, heart open, ember guarded.
Leah closed her eyes and held the flowers closer, breathing in their crooked, stubborn sweetness. For the first time in many days, she smiled — small, real, unbreakably alive.
—
Torah Verses Supporting the Story:
The wind arrived first — a sudden, breathless gust that stirred the golden leaves under Leah’s feet, tossing her scarf around her neck like a playful sibling. She reached up absently to fix it, but her hands trembled too much. Another rejection letter was crumpled in her coat pocket, sharp against her fingertips, as though even the paper could pierce her today.
She sat heavily on the bench at the edge of the old park. It smelled of autumn: damp earth, fading roses, and the early promise of rain. The gray sky mirrored the fragile faith she carried in her chest, thin as tissue paper and just as torn. “I’m trying, Hashem,” she whispered. “Why do You feel so far?”
Children’s laughter bubbled from the playground nearby — bright as morning light breaking through clouds. Leah watched them from a distance, eyes dry and burning. Once, she'd played here too, arms swinging high into the blue, heart certain the world would catch her if she fell.
Now? Each unanswered prayer felt like a missed rung, a hand slipping, a fall.
She pressed her forehead against her folded hands. There were no perfect words; just scraps of prayer falling from her heart. I have nothing left... except what little I believe You still see me, still hear me.
A small sound tugged at her thoughts: light footsteps pattering across gravel. She lifted her head and saw a boy, maybe six or seven years old, struggling with something in his hands — a thick stem, a bundle of scraggly flowers, their yellow heads drooping.
Without a word, he approached, his little boots scuffing the path. Reaching out, he presented the tangled offering toward her chest, mouth set in concentration.
“For you,” he said simply.
Startled, Leah took the flowers, their stems cooled by the wind. They were imperfect: some petals torn, others brown at the edges. But as she cradled them, a scent rose — bitter-sweet gold, green sap, and the faint crispness of meadow air.
She’d done nothing to earn them. Nothing to deserve this pure kindness.
The boy smiled — a wide, gap-toothed grin — and ran back to the playground without waiting for thanks.
In the sudden space he left, a memory surfaced: her grandfather’s voice, warm under the stars at summer picnics. "Leah’leh," he'd murmur, "faith is like a little ember. Even when you can barely find it, even when it looks cold... if you breathe gently, it can catch fire again."
Her fingers tightened around the flowers. How often she thought faith had to be strong or not at all — bold, burning, constant. But maybe fragile faith still mattered. Maybe it was enough to sit here, clutching these small blessings, willing to breathe on the ember.
The words of Tehillim rose within her like a returning song: Hashem is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusted, and I was helped (Psalm 28:7).
No lightning split the sky. No booming voice answered. But the heaviness in her chest eased, just a little — enough to feel the breath move in and out, steady and real.
Leah tilted her head back. Above the skeletal trees, a scrap of blue had torn through the clouds. Small, steady light, a sky mending itself one soft stitch at a time.
Faith didn’t have to shout. It didn’t have to roar. It could be trembling hands accepting wildflowers from a stranger. It could be the quiet decision to stay in the world one more day, heart open, ember guarded.
Leah closed her eyes and held the flowers closer, breathing in their crooked, stubborn sweetness. For the first time in many days, she smiled — small, real, unbreakably alive.
—
Torah Verses Supporting the Story:
