The silence in the apartment felt heavier at night. Talia sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, staring out the window as the city lights blinked indifferently. The world outside swirled with life, but inside her tiny home, the walls were too quiet, too empty, too still.
It had been four months since she moved to this new city — four months since she left behind family gatherings, the warm-smelling kitchens of Shabbat, and neighbors who knew her name. Here, in this unfamiliar place, no one noticed whether she was home or not. Talia's heart ached with a loneliness that seemed to stretch endless and wide.
One evening, when the loneliness felt particularly sharp, she bundled herself into a coat and slipped outside, walking aimlessly through misty streets. It wasn't raining exactly, but the air was thick and damp, each streetlight haloed in the mist. She wandered without purpose, heading nowhere at all.
Passing an overgrown community garden, something caught her eye — a patch of tiny white daisies struggling up through cracked concrete near the fence. Their petals were tattered, their leaves battered, but they stood there anyway: delicate and defiant.
Talia stopped. For some reason, tears filled her eyes, and she had to sit down on a nearby bench, her emotions bubbling up. She pressed her hands together tightly, whispering almost without thinking, "Hashem... please. I'm tired of feeling so alone."
The prayer was barely more than breath, trembling and small.
And yet — somehow — in the hush that followed, a memory stirred.
When she was a little girl, her grandfather would take her on walks before Shabbat. Once, when a sudden summer storm soaked them through, she had cried, frightened by the booming thunder. He had crouched beside her, dripping wet, and whispered, "Al tira — do not be afraid. G-d is with us always."
The words floated up now, as if carried on the mist itself: "Al tira... Do not fear, for I am with you."
Talia wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a warmth beginning to flicker in her heart, faint but real. It wasn't that the loneliness evaporated completely. But the heaviness lifted a little, just enough to breathe again.
She sat there for a while longer, gazing at the brave little flowers. There was a kind of holiness in their persistence, in their silent reaching toward the light.
When she finally walked back home that evening, she noticed other small things she hadn't before: a neighbor’s window glowing cozy and yellow; the smell of fresh bread from a corner bakery; the way a cat twined around her ankles at the building’s door, purring rough and affectionate.
Inside her apartment, Talia lit a small candle and whispered the blessing aloud, letting the flame’s gentle glow fill the room. She breathed in its warmth and let herself believe — really believe — that she wasn't truly alone.
She smiled softly to herself, feeling the familiar, comforting thread of connection to something vast and tender, something eternal. Hashem had been there the whole time, quiet and steadfast, waiting for her to notice.
That night, for the first time in weeks, Talia slept deeply, dreamlessly, wrapped in the certainty that her loneliness was not the whole story. There was Presence here too — in the mist, in the flowers, in the whispered remembering.
She was seen. She was loved. She was never, truly, alone.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
The silence in the apartment felt heavier at night. Talia sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, staring out the window as the city lights blinked indifferently. The world outside swirled with life, but inside her tiny home, the walls were too quiet, too empty, too still.
It had been four months since she moved to this new city — four months since she left behind family gatherings, the warm-smelling kitchens of Shabbat, and neighbors who knew her name. Here, in this unfamiliar place, no one noticed whether she was home or not. Talia's heart ached with a loneliness that seemed to stretch endless and wide.
One evening, when the loneliness felt particularly sharp, she bundled herself into a coat and slipped outside, walking aimlessly through misty streets. It wasn't raining exactly, but the air was thick and damp, each streetlight haloed in the mist. She wandered without purpose, heading nowhere at all.
Passing an overgrown community garden, something caught her eye — a patch of tiny white daisies struggling up through cracked concrete near the fence. Their petals were tattered, their leaves battered, but they stood there anyway: delicate and defiant.
Talia stopped. For some reason, tears filled her eyes, and she had to sit down on a nearby bench, her emotions bubbling up. She pressed her hands together tightly, whispering almost without thinking, "Hashem... please. I'm tired of feeling so alone."
The prayer was barely more than breath, trembling and small.
And yet — somehow — in the hush that followed, a memory stirred.
When she was a little girl, her grandfather would take her on walks before Shabbat. Once, when a sudden summer storm soaked them through, she had cried, frightened by the booming thunder. He had crouched beside her, dripping wet, and whispered, "Al tira — do not be afraid. G-d is with us always."
The words floated up now, as if carried on the mist itself: "Al tira... Do not fear, for I am with you."
Talia wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a warmth beginning to flicker in her heart, faint but real. It wasn't that the loneliness evaporated completely. But the heaviness lifted a little, just enough to breathe again.
She sat there for a while longer, gazing at the brave little flowers. There was a kind of holiness in their persistence, in their silent reaching toward the light.
When she finally walked back home that evening, she noticed other small things she hadn't before: a neighbor’s window glowing cozy and yellow; the smell of fresh bread from a corner bakery; the way a cat twined around her ankles at the building’s door, purring rough and affectionate.
Inside her apartment, Talia lit a small candle and whispered the blessing aloud, letting the flame’s gentle glow fill the room. She breathed in its warmth and let herself believe — really believe — that she wasn't truly alone.
She smiled softly to herself, feeling the familiar, comforting thread of connection to something vast and tender, something eternal. Hashem had been there the whole time, quiet and steadfast, waiting for her to notice.
That night, for the first time in weeks, Talia slept deeply, dreamlessly, wrapped in the certainty that her loneliness was not the whole story. There was Presence here too — in the mist, in the flowers, in the whispered remembering.
She was seen. She was loved. She was never, truly, alone.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh Verses:
