The world was quiet—drenched in that soft, golden light only childhood seems to remember.
There were giggles—small, fleeting, unburdened.
Naomi's laugh rang out like wind chimes—bright, breathless—as she and Hannah tumbled across the bedroom floor.
"Hey..!~ Stop beating around the bush and tell me!" Naomi demanded, eyes alight with mischief.
"Tell you what?" Hannah raised a brow, her voice stoic—but the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.
"You're making me even more curious now!" Naomi pouted, folding her arms in mock frustration. "Who did you like in our class??"
"Ugh. Forget it," Hannah muttered, rolling onto her bed and flopping down on her stomach, the old mattress creaking under her.
From the mat below, Naomi stared up at her, face scrunched in a mix of curiosity and slight offense.
"This is so unfair," she huffed. "I always tell you everything, and now you're keeping secrets?!"
Without warning, Naomi sprang to her feet, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips."Fine. I'll make you talk."
Before Hannah could react, Naomi lunged, tackling her onto the bed in a flurry of blankets and stuffed animals.
"Naomi—stop!" Hannah laughed, breathless, cheeks flushed pink as she squirmed beneath her. Naomi dug her fingers mercilessly into Hannah's sides, launching a ruthless tickle attack.
"I'll keep tickling you 'til you spill!" Naomi declared triumphantly.
But then—something shifted.
Hannah's laughter cracked, the sound breaking apart like fragile glass.
"Naomi…" Hannah's voice dropped, quieter, firmer. "Stop now."
But Naomi didn't—not right away.
Not until Hannah shoved at her arms, harder this time. Her voice trembled with something thick and heavy:
"Naomi, please…"
And then—
Click.
The doorknob turned.
The door creaked open on its hinges.
Naomi froze, still hovering over Hannah, her hair falling like a curtain between them.
Hannah twisted her head toward the sound—and saw him.
Her grandfather.
He stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the harsh white hallway light. Silent. Still. Watching.
No words passed his lips.
Just a look.
A look Hannah had never seen before.
But somehow—it pierced her.
Her chest twisted violently. Her lungs forgot how to breathe.
Because that expression—it wasn't anger.
It wasn't shock.
It was knowing.
It was judging.
It was—
"Disgusted..." a voice whispered—not from him, but from somewhere darker. Somewhere inside her. Quiet and cruel, slithering into the cracks of her heart.
The weight of it crashed down on her—louder, sharper, crueler than any sermon ever could.
Naomi scrambled off her in a rush, awkwardly adjusting her shirt, stammering apologies that barely registered.
But Hannah couldn't move.
Couldn't blink.
Could barely think.
Shame cinched itself around her throat like a noose.
And the worst part was—she didn't even know what she had done wrong.
Only that she had.
He knew.
And then—
As if someone snapped their fingers—
Hannah woke.
The dream's fading echoes gripped her like a vise.
Gasping, she felt the weight of her own body against the sheets—twisted and tangled around her legs. Sweat slicked her skin as if she had been running for miles. Her wide eyes darted toward the door.
Closed. Locked. Safe.
But the image of his face—the way he had looked at her—lingered. It wasn't just in the past anymore. It was here. Now. His judgment, his disgust, pressed against her chest like a physical presence.
A shuddering breath left her lips as she pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to steady the frantic beat of her heart.
But no matter how much she willed it away, the sting of that expression refused to leave.
It was as if she could still feel the cold weight of his eyes on her, as though they were not just memories but something real, something that would always follow her.
Hannah curled inward, pulling her knees to her chest. A broken gasp escaped her throat as her shoulders began to shake.
She tried to calm herself.
Tried to pray.
Tried to breathe.
But that feeling—that shame, that fear—it clawed its way up from the depths, devouring her whole.
And helplessly...
quietly...
her cheeks grew wet with tears.
---
Later, when the trembling had subsided but sleep still refused to come, Hannah slipped out of bed.
The room seemed eerily still. She could hear the faint hum of the house settling, the distant sounds of the night outside. But inside, she was caught in the sharp echo of that look. Her grandfather's silent judgment felt like an invisible chain, tugging at her thoughts.
Dragging her blanket behind her, she crossed the room and sank into the chair at her desk. The warm yellow glow of her lamp bathed the space in a small, comforting circle of light, throwing soft shadows over her scattered belongings.
Her gaze fell on the Bible tucked between textbooks—a quiet invitation she had long ignored.
She reached for it, her fingers brushing the cover as she hesitated. The weight of the moment felt too heavy, but she couldn't ignore the pull. The pull of her need for something—anything—to ease the ache inside her.
With a slow breath, she opened it, letting her eyes scan the page she had last marked.
Her thoughts drifted, but they always found their way back to that moment—the look, the weight, the shame.
She clenched her jaw, blinking hard, then lowered her voice to a whisper, reading aloud:
"...C-come to me... all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Her voice cracked with the effort to steady herself.
"Take my yoke upon you and learn from me... for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."
She paused, her vision blurring. Her throat felt tight, the words thick with the weight of unspoken questions.
"For my yoke is easy... and my burden is light."
Her voice cracked at the end—her throat raw, dry.
She bit down hard on her trembling lip, fighting the surge of emotions clawing up from inside.
Her chest squeezed tighter as she sat there, staring at the words that promised rest—and wondering why she felt so heavy.
She thought about how heavy her shoulders had felt ever since that moment—the moment her grandfather had given her that look.
She remembered every detail of it.
And somewhere deep inside, a part of her—aching, desperate—wanted to undo it. Erase it.
She wanted him to look at her differently.
That's why, ever since then, she worked so hard. She became a good student, showed her passions, wore clothes a normal girl would wear. She tried to prove to him that she wasn't what he thought she was.
That she was normal.
She tried to be normal.
That she was a good daughter. A good granddaughter. A good Christian girl.
But deep inside…
She thought about how God created women—gentle, emotional, feminine.
She tried to be that. She really did.
Then why...Why did it feel so wrong?
"Is this what being a woman is supposed to feel like?"
"Then why does it feel so wrong?" she thought miserably, as the soft sound of a teardrop hit the surface of her desk.
"Why do I feel so burdened? I already did my best..."
She questioned everything she felt in that moment. Whispered those questions to God, letting them hang heavy in the air. And she cried—quietly, endlessly.
Waiting for an answer.
But in this moment, Hannah didn't yet know what God was trying to say.
She was too busy— busy working herself to the brink, chasing acceptance.
What she didn't realize yet…was that the thing she'd been striving for—
never required work in the first place.
It had already been offered.
Freely.
Lovingly.
God is simply waiting for her.
To turn that aching desire to be enough toward the only One who already knew she was.