Querencia- Threads of Faith

Chapter 1: Before the Storm

They always said I was different. From the time I was little, people noticed something about me that set me apart. I never really understood what they meant back then, but now, looking back, I think I do. I've always felt things more deeply than others-like I had a special way of seeing the world, of understanding it. While other kids were busy with their games and laughter, I was the one who stood quietly, watching, feeling every emotion as if it were my own.

I remember sitting by the window for hours, gazing out at the world beyond our small apartment. Our street was nothing special-just a long stretch of cracked pavement lined with buildings that seemed to have seen better days. But to me, that street was alive. I watched the way people moved, how they carried their burdens in their eyes, how they smiled only when they thought no one was looking. I would imagine their stories, dream up lives for them where they were happy and free, far away from whatever pain they were hiding.

That's just how I was. I couldn't help but see the world in shades of grey, where everyone was both good and bad, where nothing was ever truly black and white. I was the girl who cried my heart out during sad movies and stayed awake at night thinking about the homeless man who lived down the street, wondering if he was cold, if he was hungry. I would sneak out extra food from our pantry, carefully wrapped in napkins, and leave it for him on the corner, hoping it might bring him a small bit of comfort, and maybe, some good deeds to me.

My mother used to tell me I had an old soul, that I was wise beyond my years. She would stroke my hair and smile sadly, as if she knew something I didn't. "You have a gift, my love," she would say, "a heart that sees beyond the surface." I never quite understood what she meant by that. I just knew that I felt things differently. I cared too much, loved too deeply. It wasn't something I chose; it was just who I was.

In school, the teachers would often pull me aside, their faces kind but their words laced with concern. "You're too sensitive, sweetheart," they'd say. "You need to toughen up a bit. The world isn't always kind." I would nod and smile, but inside, I didn't want to toughen up. I didn't want to become hard like the others. I wanted to stay soft. I wanted to keep feeling everything, even if it hurt.

Other kids my age didn't quite understand me. They'd laugh and play, carefree and light, while I would sit with my notebook, scribbling down my thoughts or reading a book I had borrowed from the library. I preferred stories-real ones, ones where the characters struggled and grew, where they faced their fears and found their strength. I didn't care much for fairy tales. I knew too well that life wasn't a fairy tale.

At recess, I was often alone, watching the other kids from a distance. I tried to join in a few times, but their games seemed pointless to me. They ran and shouted, their faces flushed with excitement, while I watched, wondering how they could be so carefree. Maybe they hadn't seen the things I had. Maybe their homes were filled with love and laughter, not the silence and tension that filled mine.

My home was different. It was a place where the walls seemed to whisper secrets in the dark, where silence could be as heavy as a thick blanket. There were moments of tenderness, like when my mother would sit with me in the kitchen, her hands busy peeling potatoes or chopping vegetables, her eyes tired but soft. She had a way of making the ordinary feel special, of turning a simple meal into a small act of love.

But there were other times, times when everything seemed to crack under the weight of unspoken words, when the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm. I learned early on to navigate those moods, to find my way through the minefield of our everyday lives. I became an expert at reading between the lines, at sensing the shifts in the atmosphere, and knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.