Chapter 2
Sarah barely slept that night. Not because of the usual nightmares or the hollow ache in her chest, but because something about her conversation with Mrs. Thompson wouldn't let go of her mind. It wasn't the words themselves, nor was it the old woman's gentle voice—it was the feeling that, for the first time in months, someone had seen her. Really seen her.
By morning, the weight of grief settled over her again like an old coat. The world outside her window was still moving—cars passed, neighbors walked their dogs, and the sun cast its light indifferently on the quiet street. It didn't matter. The world could spin all it wanted, but Sarah felt stuck in place.
She made her way to the kitchen, stepping over the unopened mail that had piled up near the door. The coffee machine groaned to life, filling the air with the scent of something warm and familiar. As she leaned against the counter, she stared at the faded sticky note still clinging to the fridge.
"Pick up milk. Call Dad. Don't forget to smile."
It was in her mother's handwriting.
Sarah swallowed hard. Her mother had always left little notes like that—reminders of simple things, written with love. It had been months since she passed, and Sarah still couldn't bring herself to take them down.
A sharp knock at the door startled her. She wasn't expecting anyone. For a brief moment, she considered ignoring it, letting whoever it was just walk away. But something nudged her forward.
When she opened the door, she found a young boy standing there, no older than eight. His dark curls were unkempt, and his jacket was two sizes too big, but his eyes were bright—full of life in a way Sarah barely remembered.
"Hi," the boy said matter-of-factly. "Mrs. Thompson said you might need some company."
Sarah blinked. "She… what?"
"She said you seemed sad," he continued, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And when people are sad, it helps if they have a friend. I'm Luke."
Sarah hesitated. She wasn't sure what to say. She barely knew how to talk to adults these days, let alone kids.
Luke, however, didn't seem to need permission to continue. "Can I come in?" he asked. "It's kinda cold out here."
Before she could think of a reason to say no, she stepped aside, and the boy marched in like he belonged there.
Luke made himself at home, settling onto the couch and looking around like he was studying a new world. Sarah, still caught off guard, hovered near the kitchen doorway.
"So, what do you do all day?" he asked, swinging his legs back and forth.
"What?"
"Do you work? Or do you just sit here and be sad?"
Sarah let out a breath—half amused, half exasperated. "Wow. You're not exactly subtle, are you?"
Luke shrugged. "My mom says being honest is important. She also says sadness grows if you feed it too much. Like a stray cat."
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Your mom sounds wise."
"She is." Luke grinned. "She also makes really good pancakes. But that's not why I'm here. I'm here to make sure you don't turn into one of those sad-cat people."
A strange feeling stirred in Sarah's chest—something between laughter and pain. She didn't know what to make of this kid, barging into her quiet, grief-ridden world with his bluntness and oversized jacket.
"You don't even know me," she said after a moment.
"Yeah, but Mrs. Thompson does," Luke replied simply. "And if she says you need a friend, then you probably do."
Sarah had no response to that.
Over the next hour, Luke talked. A lot.
He told her about how he and his mom had moved to the neighborhood a few months ago, about his favorite superhero (definitely Spider-Man, because he was "cool but also kinda awkward"), and about how he once tried to build a rocket ship out of cardboard and nearly set his backyard on fire.
Sarah mostly listened. It had been a long time since her house had been filled with any sound other than silence.
At one point, Luke asked, "So, do you believe in God?"
The question hit her harder than she expected. She hadn't thought about God much lately. Or maybe she had—maybe she'd thought about Him too much, but only in anger.
"I used to," she admitted carefully.
Luke tilted his head. "But not anymore?"
Sarah swallowed. "Not really."
"Why?"
She let out a slow breath, running her fingers along the edge of her coffee mug. How could she explain it? How could she put into words the slow unraveling of faith, the way grief hollowed you out until you had nothing left to offer?
"Because bad things happen," she finally said. "Because sometimes you pray and nothing changes. Because sometimes the people you love most get taken away, and you're just… left here."
Luke was quiet for a long time.
Then, he nodded, as if he understood more than an eight-year-old should. "Yeah," he said. "That happens."
Sarah looked at him, surprised. "You say that like you know."
Luke hesitated, then pulled something out of his jacket pocket. It was a small photograph—creased at the edges, like it had been held too many times.
"This is my dad," he said, holding it up. "He died last year. Car accident."
Sarah's heart clenched. "Luke, I… I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," he said, though his voice was softer now. "It sucked. A lot. And I was really mad at God for a while. But then I thought… maybe He's not just in the big stuff. Maybe He's in the little stuff, too."
Sarah frowned. "What do you mean?"
Luke leaned forward, his small hands gripping the photograph. "Like, after my dad died, my mom said we'd be okay. But I didn't believe her. Then one day, this stray cat started showing up at our door. He was ugly—missing half his ear and kinda weird-looking. But every morning, he'd wait outside for me. Just sit there. And I thought… maybe God sent him. Not to fix everything, but just so I wouldn't feel alone."
Sarah stared at him, something tight in her throat.
"I think," Luke continued, "that sometimes God doesn't fix the big stuff. But He sends little things to help us get through it."
For the first time in months, Sarah didn't know how to argue.
She looked around her quiet house, at the cold cup of coffee in her hands, at the boy sitting on her couch with a picture of his father tucked between his fingers.
Maybe God didn't send miracles.
Maybe He sent people.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.