“Don’t look back,” Mattaniah said, pulling his brother behind him. “Not now.”
The boy stumbled, barefoot and crusted with ash, his hand trembling in Mattaniah’s grip. Smoke clawed up the sky in twisting spirals. Behind them, fire devoured the Temple. Stone cracked. A scream rose over the rooftops, high and brief, then gone.
Mattaniah didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.
They skirted the edge of the king’s garden, the only path they hadn't blocked. After hours hiding beneath a collapsed wall, the darkness had come silent and wide, and with it, their chance.
The Babylonians had already dragged King Zedekiah out in chains. Most of the guards were either dead or too drunk on destruction to notice a few survivors slipping through the wreckage.
“Where are we going?” the boy—a cousin, barely ten—whimpered.
Mattaniah didn’t answer.
He didn’t know.
His feet hurt. His hand bled. His soul—his soul felt hollowed, something scraped clean by sorrow.
The Lord had warned them. Again and again. And still, they had run headlong into judgment.
His father, a scribe in the court, had died weeks before, arms thrown wide as the walls gave way. Their mother too, crushed beneath the home that once held her laughter.
Now it was just the two of them—remnants. The lucky, if survival was still a kind of luck.
They crept through an orchard where the trees hung scorched and dry. Jerusalem smoldered behind them. The city of David, broken. The firelight kissed the horizon like a cruel sunrise.
He stopped for breath. The boy sank to the ground.
“They burned everything,” the child whispered, voice hoarse. “Even the scrolls.”
Mattaniah lowered himself beside him, chest heaving. He looked at his hands—calloused from copying sacred texts, now cracked from ash and stone—and had the wild urge to laugh.
“I held the Torah in my lap,” he said. “I pressed the seal of Josiah. Now I flee through back alleys like a thief.”
The boy looked at him, eyes hollow.
“Why would God let His house burn?”
Mattaniah stared into the distance. “Because we soiled it first.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere, a timber snapped and fell with a groan.
He remembered the words of Jeremiah—the old prophet they all mocked. How Mattaniah had turned his face from him outside the gates, pretending not to see. Hands still inked with holy words, ears shut to warnings.
Only now did the sound of the prophet’s weeping make sense.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a scrap of parchment—part of Psalm 137, scorched at the edges, a relic he'd salvaged from the ruins.
He handed it to the boy before he could change his mind.
“If I forget you, O Jerusalem,” the boy read softly, “let my right hand forget its skill…”
The child’s voice cracked. He passed the parchment back, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his torn robe. Then, something strange passed over him—a stillness.
“Are we still His people, even now?” he asked.
Mattaniah looked up. The ruins loomed on the skyline, jagged and red. And yet…
He had expected desolation. Despair. But in the silence, there was something else beneath the grief—not warmth exactly, but the trace of something unburned.
The Lord had given them over, yes. He had torn down what they refused to surrender. But He had not forgotten.
“I think He’ll find us,” Mattaniah said quietly. “Even here.”
The boy took his hand again.
They rose, turned toward the hills, and walked away from the fire.
“Don’t look back,” Mattaniah said, pulling his brother behind him. “Not now.”
The boy stumbled, barefoot and crusted with ash, his hand trembling in Mattaniah’s grip. Smoke clawed up the sky in twisting spirals. Behind them, fire devoured the Temple. Stone cracked. A scream rose over the rooftops, high and brief, then gone.
Mattaniah didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.
They skirted the edge of the king’s garden, the only path they hadn't blocked. After hours hiding beneath a collapsed wall, the darkness had come silent and wide, and with it, their chance.
The Babylonians had already dragged King Zedekiah out in chains. Most of the guards were either dead or too drunk on destruction to notice a few survivors slipping through the wreckage.
“Where are we going?” the boy—a cousin, barely ten—whimpered.
Mattaniah didn’t answer.
He didn’t know.
His feet hurt. His hand bled. His soul—his soul felt hollowed, something scraped clean by sorrow.
The Lord had warned them. Again and again. And still, they had run headlong into judgment.
His father, a scribe in the court, had died weeks before, arms thrown wide as the walls gave way. Their mother too, crushed beneath the home that once held her laughter.
Now it was just the two of them—remnants. The lucky, if survival was still a kind of luck.
They crept through an orchard where the trees hung scorched and dry. Jerusalem smoldered behind them. The city of David, broken. The firelight kissed the horizon like a cruel sunrise.
He stopped for breath. The boy sank to the ground.
“They burned everything,” the child whispered, voice hoarse. “Even the scrolls.”
Mattaniah lowered himself beside him, chest heaving. He looked at his hands—calloused from copying sacred texts, now cracked from ash and stone—and had the wild urge to laugh.
“I held the Torah in my lap,” he said. “I pressed the seal of Josiah. Now I flee through back alleys like a thief.”
The boy looked at him, eyes hollow.
“Why would God let His house burn?”
Mattaniah stared into the distance. “Because we soiled it first.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere, a timber snapped and fell with a groan.
He remembered the words of Jeremiah—the old prophet they all mocked. How Mattaniah had turned his face from him outside the gates, pretending not to see. Hands still inked with holy words, ears shut to warnings.
Only now did the sound of the prophet’s weeping make sense.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a scrap of parchment—part of Psalm 137, scorched at the edges, a relic he'd salvaged from the ruins.
He handed it to the boy before he could change his mind.
“If I forget you, O Jerusalem,” the boy read softly, “let my right hand forget its skill…”
The child’s voice cracked. He passed the parchment back, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his torn robe. Then, something strange passed over him—a stillness.
“Are we still His people, even now?” he asked.
Mattaniah looked up. The ruins loomed on the skyline, jagged and red. And yet…
He had expected desolation. Despair. But in the silence, there was something else beneath the grief—not warmth exactly, but the trace of something unburned.
The Lord had given them over, yes. He had torn down what they refused to surrender. But He had not forgotten.
“I think He’ll find us,” Mattaniah said quietly. “Even here.”
The boy took his hand again.
They rose, turned toward the hills, and walked away from the fire.
