Chapter 1: The Silence I Carry

 Chapter 1: The Silence I Carry

The rain had been falling since early morning not heavy, just enough to turn the earth soft and make the leaves glisten. It was the kind of rain that didn’t want to be noticed, but somehow found its way into everything.

Fifteen-year-old Emmanuel sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the window. The glass was fogged from his breath. Drops of water slid down the outside like slow, patient tears.

In the other room, his mother hummed softly while making tea. The kettle hissed. A spoon clinked against a steel cup. Everything was normal. Quiet. Peaceful. But inside Emmanuel, something was breaking.

He didn’t know how to explain it not to his parents, not to his cousins, not even to the priest who sometimes came to visit.

Because the truth was, nothing looked wrong.

He was healthy. He could run, walk, go to school, laugh with friends. But there was one thing one silent, aching thing that he could not do.

Not because he was weak.

But because he wasn’t allowed to.

He had tried to speak about it once. Just once. But the look in his father’s eyes… it was enough to close Emmanuel’s mouth forever.

Now, he carried that silence like a stone in his chest. It didn’t make noise. It didn’t bleed.

But it weighed more than any sickness ever could.

That morning, after breakfast, he slipped outside. The mist was still rising from the ground. The hills in the distance looked like they were sleeping under wool blankets.

He walked slowly, his hands in the pockets of his old hoodie, the one with a broken zipper. The world around him was green and alive birds calling from the trees, little frogs jumping in puddles.

And yet, all of it felt so… far.

He found his usual spot a flat rock beneath the gulmar tree, a little distance away from the house. From here, he could see the roofs of the village, the old church spire, and the winding path that disappeared into the forest.

He sat there, hugging his knees. And for a long time, he said nothing.

But inside, his heart cried.

 “Why, Lord?”

“Why this one thing?”

“I do everything right. I pray. I obey. I don’t complain.”

“So why... why won’t You let me have this?”

He didn’t hear an answer. Just the wind, brushing the tall grass.

He bit his lip, trying not to cry. He hated crying. He didn’t want to be seen as weak. But that morning, it was too hard. The tears came anyway.

And through the sobs, he whispered:

 “You formed me in my mother’s womb, right?”

“So why did You make this dream… if You were never going to let it happen?”

His chest ached with the question.

Then, from somewhere deep inside not from the sky, not from the trees a verse rose to his mind, one he had once read in the Psalms.

 “Can a woman forget her nursing child?

Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.”

(Isaiah 49:15)

And for just a moment, Emmanuel felt something warm like a hand on his shoulder.

It wasn’t an answer.

But it was… enough.

When he went home that day, no one noticed his red eyes. He joked with his little sister, helped his mother wash the dishes, and sat through evening prayer without missing a word.

But that night, when the house fell quiet and the lights went out, he opened his diary beneath his blanket and wrote:

 “Dear God,

I’ll carry this secret.

I’ll carry it for as long as You want.

But please… if You still remember me,

let me know You’re near.

Just once.

I’m still waiting.”

Then he closed the book, turned off his torchlight, and fell asleep listening to the rain.

And in the dream that followed, there was no wheelchair, no chains just a boy running barefoot through the clouds.