The knock was louder this time—insistent, clumsy, almost desperate.
Ezra froze mid-step on the stairs. His wife stirred in the dark, her breath catching. “Who would come at this hour?” she whispered, pulling the child beside her closer.
Another knock. Then a voice.
“Ezra! Please—it’s Eliab.”
Ezra’s heart sank. He pressed his fingers to his eyelids, already feeling the sting of exhaustion. He’d just managed to get the baby down. The lentils from supper sat untouched in a bowl near the bed. Nothing in him wanted to move again tonight.
Still. He stepped over his daughter's sleeping form and made his way to the latch, cursing under breath the thin walls, the thin bread, the thin hours that made these nights feel longer than they should.
He opened the door a crack.
Eliab stood panting in the night, eyes wild.
“I’ve had guests come—unexpectedly. Travelers from Jericho, I think. They just arrived and I’ve nothing to give them. Not a crumb. Could I take three loaves? Please.”
Ezra stared at him. “Eliab. It’s midnight.”
“I know. I’ve been knocking throughout the village. You’re the only one who's opened the door.” His voice cracked. “I beg you.”
Ezra looked back at his wife’s shadow in the bed. The baby whimpered. If he moved more than a breath too loud, they’d all be up again.
And yet.
He shut the door slowly and turned toward the storage bin. His back ached as he knelt and reached inside. The loaves were for tomorrow. But tomorrow was not in front of him. Eliab’s trembling hands were.
He brought the bread to the door and held it out without a word.
Eliab took them gently, reverently. “I—I didn’t know if anyone would answer tonight,” he breathed.
Ezra said nothing. He only nodded, and closed the door.
Weeks passed.
The child became ill. First with a cough, and then far worse. Their small home shrank around them as the days pressed through fevered nights. Ezra buried his head in prayer, torn between hope and silence, unsure which voice in him was the whisper of God, and which was just fear.
On the sixth night, the child’s breathing faltered. His wife sat by the mat, rocking slowly, lips moving but no sound coming.
Ezra went outside.
The stars felt cold above him. Somewhere near the well, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
He didn't know what to pray anymore. He just stood there, empty hands at his sides.
Then—
Footsteps.
“Ezra?”
Eliab.
He came near, carrying something wrapped in cloth. “I heard,” he said quietly. “May I come?”
Ezra nodded. Wordless. Tired.
Eliab stepped inside and gently placed the bundle beside the mother. Warm broth. Herbs. A measured hand to the child’s brow, as if transferring calm from his fingers into the little chest still rising and falling too fast.
He didn’t leave that night.
Nor the next.
Each evening, he returned—bearing broth, soft fruit, quieted songs.
The seventh night, Ezra sat outside again, this time beside him.
“How did you know to come?” Ezra asked.
Eliab looked up at the stars.
“You gave me bread when there was none in your house,” he said simply. “I couldn't forget.”
Inside, the child stirred, coughed once—and then, for the first time in days, breathed deep and easy.
Ezra didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He only leaned forward, put his face in his hands, and wept.
The knock was louder this time—insistent, clumsy, almost desperate.
Ezra froze mid-step on the stairs. His wife stirred in the dark, her breath catching. “Who would come at this hour?” she whispered, pulling the child beside her closer.
Another knock. Then a voice.
“Ezra! Please—it’s Eliab.”
Ezra’s heart sank. He pressed his fingers to his eyelids, already feeling the sting of exhaustion. He’d just managed to get the baby down. The lentils from supper sat untouched in a bowl near the bed. Nothing in him wanted to move again tonight.
Still. He stepped over his daughter's sleeping form and made his way to the latch, cursing under breath the thin walls, the thin bread, the thin hours that made these nights feel longer than they should.
He opened the door a crack.
Eliab stood panting in the night, eyes wild.
“I’ve had guests come—unexpectedly. Travelers from Jericho, I think. They just arrived and I’ve nothing to give them. Not a crumb. Could I take three loaves? Please.”
Ezra stared at him. “Eliab. It’s midnight.”
“I know. I’ve been knocking throughout the village. You’re the only one who's opened the door.” His voice cracked. “I beg you.”
Ezra looked back at his wife’s shadow in the bed. The baby whimpered. If he moved more than a breath too loud, they’d all be up again.
And yet.
He shut the door slowly and turned toward the storage bin. His back ached as he knelt and reached inside. The loaves were for tomorrow. But tomorrow was not in front of him. Eliab’s trembling hands were.
He brought the bread to the door and held it out without a word.
Eliab took them gently, reverently. “I—I didn’t know if anyone would answer tonight,” he breathed.
Ezra said nothing. He only nodded, and closed the door.
Weeks passed.
The child became ill. First with a cough, and then far worse. Their small home shrank around them as the days pressed through fevered nights. Ezra buried his head in prayer, torn between hope and silence, unsure which voice in him was the whisper of God, and which was just fear.
On the sixth night, the child’s breathing faltered. His wife sat by the mat, rocking slowly, lips moving but no sound coming.
Ezra went outside.
The stars felt cold above him. Somewhere near the well, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
He didn't know what to pray anymore. He just stood there, empty hands at his sides.
Then—
Footsteps.
“Ezra?”
Eliab.
He came near, carrying something wrapped in cloth. “I heard,” he said quietly. “May I come?”
Ezra nodded. Wordless. Tired.
Eliab stepped inside and gently placed the bundle beside the mother. Warm broth. Herbs. A measured hand to the child’s brow, as if transferring calm from his fingers into the little chest still rising and falling too fast.
He didn’t leave that night.
Nor the next.
Each evening, he returned—bearing broth, soft fruit, quieted songs.
The seventh night, Ezra sat outside again, this time beside him.
“How did you know to come?” Ezra asked.
Eliab looked up at the stars.
“You gave me bread when there was none in your house,” he said simply. “I couldn't forget.”
Inside, the child stirred, coughed once—and then, for the first time in days, breathed deep and easy.
Ezra didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He only leaned forward, put his face in his hands, and wept.
