What if the saints of old walked among us today-would we honor their triumphs, or whisper about their secrets?
Zarinna knows the weight of hidden truths. Once devoted, now marked by choices she cannot undo, she carries shame like a shadow she cannot...
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With a faint shudder, David pulled the garment-filled pouch from his satchel, double-checking the drawstrings before stepping out of the pastor's office. The sound of the zipper sliding closed felt far too loud in the quiet hallway.
"Ah well," he muttered under his breath, exhaling softly, "it's not like I stole it."
But the thought didn't sit easily.
Or did I? another voice inside him whispered, low and accusing. A cold prickle ran down his spine. Maybe he should've just left the clothes where he found them—hidden safely in the bank by the spring.
No, he argued with himself, tightening his grip on the pouch. If I'd left them there, those men would've found them. God knows what they'd have said—or done.
He paused at the threshold of the sanctuary, centering his breath. His heart was still restless, unsettled. The image of her wouldn't leave his mind.
He had seen her—just for a heartbeat—before she vanished behind the rock and the spray of water. But even in that fleeting glimpse, something inside him had recognized her. His chest had tightened; his heart had jumped as though startled by memory.
It's her.
The woman from Baguio.
He saw it so clearly now: a quiet afternoon, a front yard washed in sunlight, and her—seated by the porch, head bowed, a look of gentle thoughtfulness on her face. Back then, he had paused without knowing why. And in that still moment, the Lord's whisper had come, clear as breath— Her, beloved.
He had prayed about it every night after that. Unsure what it meant. Unsure if he'd only imagined it.
He never expected to see her again—least of all like that: terrified, trembling, hiding in cold water, clutching herself against shame and fear. And yet... when he'd looked into her eyes, even for that brief instant, there had been something there. A cry that wasn't just for help. A deeper kind of pleading—like her soul reaching out.
His heart pounded now just remembering it. He could almost still see her face—pale, innocent, fragile with remorse—and his pulse quickened in confusion.
He shook the thought away, forcing his mind back to the task at hand. This wasn't the time. He had to deal with the laundry first.
He spotted Gina near the pulpit, arranging the Sunday lyrics for the worship team. The soft hum of her singing mingled with the faint scent of wood polish and candle wax. The church was empty, golden light filtering through stained glass, painting the pews in ripples of blue and red. David paused at the back, scanning the room to make sure they were alone before approaching.
