The last light of the evening slanted through the trees, painting golden laces across Emily's lap as she sat on the old porch swing. The boards creaked under her stillness. She clutched the letter she’d found in her mother’s Bible—one she wasn’t supposed to read yet, one labeled, “For Emily, when you miss me most."
Today was that day. Six months since the funeral, and the ache still felt as raw as the moment they lowered her mother’s casket into the ground.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
"My Darling Girl," it began, "This world is only a breath compared to eternity. We are made for more than can fit between sunrise and sunset. Don't think of me as gone. Think of me as having arrived—home, complete, singing the name of Jesus in places too wonderful for words."
A tear slipped down Emily’s cheek. She closed her eyes against the ache, against the bitter thought that afterlife was just a wish, a comfort we tell ourselves when the world goes cruelly silent.
The wind stirred the trees. A low, sweet trill of a bird pierced the dusk. Emily opened her eyes just as a brilliant, crimson cardinal landed on the porch railing—so close she could see the tiny flick of its chest as it breathed.
Mama had loved cardinals. Called them heaven’s messengers.
The bird tilted its small head, seeming to look right at her. In its black, shining eyes, Emily felt a sudden warmth, a whispering reassurance: Faith is not foolishness. It's seeing with the soul what the eyes cannot.
Her mother’s letter continued:
"Hold tight to the promises, Emily. Jesus said, 'I go to prepare a place for you.' He meant it for me—and for you. One day, we’ll sit together again, laughing over cups of jasmine tea, arms around each other, more alive than we ever were on this side of life."
For the first time in months, Emily smiled. Not the broken smile she wore to make other people comfortable—but a real one, trembling and full of something she hadn't dared feel: hope.
She inhaled deeply, breathing in the clean scent of rain coming on the wind. Grief still sat heavily in her chest. It probably always would. But sitting here, on this worn porch swing, with the cardinal keeping watch and the words of Scripture stitched into her heart, she realized the ache was not the end of the story. It was just the quiet echo of a love that hadn’t gone away. Love that had simply stepped into another room—one she couldn’t see yet.
She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes.
"I'm not alone," she whispered. "And someday, Mama... someday I'll see you again."
The cardinal gave a short, sweet chirp before lifting into the air, disappearing into the deepening dusk.
Emily stayed on the swing a little longer, letting the melody of hidden strength—the promise of life after life—settle deep and sure inside her.
And for the first night in a long time, when she finally went inside and turned out the lights, the darkness didn’t feel empty. It felt full of light she just couldn’t see yet.
—
Bible Verses:
The last light of the evening slanted through the trees, painting golden laces across Emily's lap as she sat on the old porch swing. The boards creaked under her stillness. She clutched the letter she’d found in her mother’s Bible—one she wasn’t supposed to read yet, one labeled, “For Emily, when you miss me most."
Today was that day. Six months since the funeral, and the ache still felt as raw as the moment they lowered her mother’s casket into the ground.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
"My Darling Girl," it began, "This world is only a breath compared to eternity. We are made for more than can fit between sunrise and sunset. Don't think of me as gone. Think of me as having arrived—home, complete, singing the name of Jesus in places too wonderful for words."
A tear slipped down Emily’s cheek. She closed her eyes against the ache, against the bitter thought that afterlife was just a wish, a comfort we tell ourselves when the world goes cruelly silent.
The wind stirred the trees. A low, sweet trill of a bird pierced the dusk. Emily opened her eyes just as a brilliant, crimson cardinal landed on the porch railing—so close she could see the tiny flick of its chest as it breathed.
Mama had loved cardinals. Called them heaven’s messengers.
The bird tilted its small head, seeming to look right at her. In its black, shining eyes, Emily felt a sudden warmth, a whispering reassurance: Faith is not foolishness. It's seeing with the soul what the eyes cannot.
Her mother’s letter continued:
"Hold tight to the promises, Emily. Jesus said, 'I go to prepare a place for you.' He meant it for me—and for you. One day, we’ll sit together again, laughing over cups of jasmine tea, arms around each other, more alive than we ever were on this side of life."
For the first time in months, Emily smiled. Not the broken smile she wore to make other people comfortable—but a real one, trembling and full of something she hadn't dared feel: hope.
She inhaled deeply, breathing in the clean scent of rain coming on the wind. Grief still sat heavily in her chest. It probably always would. But sitting here, on this worn porch swing, with the cardinal keeping watch and the words of Scripture stitched into her heart, she realized the ache was not the end of the story. It was just the quiet echo of a love that hadn’t gone away. Love that had simply stepped into another room—one she couldn’t see yet.
She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes.
"I'm not alone," she whispered. "And someday, Mama... someday I'll see you again."
The cardinal gave a short, sweet chirp before lifting into the air, disappearing into the deepening dusk.
Emily stayed on the swing a little longer, letting the melody of hidden strength—the promise of life after life—settle deep and sure inside her.
And for the first night in a long time, when she finally went inside and turned out the lights, the darkness didn’t feel empty. It felt full of light she just couldn’t see yet.
—
Bible Verses:
