The Scribe and the Sacred City
The air in the room was still, thick with the scent of aged papyrus and the faint, metallic tang of the inkwell I had just used. My hand ached, a dull, familiar throb from wrist to knuckle. I was old,…
Ezekiel’s Tale of Grace and Betrayal
The voice would not leave him. It came on the wind that scoured the valley, a dry whisper that settled in the bones. Ezekiel sat among the exiles, the dust of Babylon fine on his skin, but his eyes were…
The Governor’s Trust
The heat that autumn was a physical presence. It lay over the land of Judah like a dusty blanket, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on the ruins of Jerusalem and the scattered settlements where the poor, the vinedressers, and the…
The Vineyard’s Silent Lament
The heat in the vineyard was a physical weight. It pressed down on Anathoth’s shoulders as he worked, a dry, woolen cloak he could not shed. The grapes, fat and purpling, should have been a promise. But as his fingers…
Remembrance in Babylon
## The Names We Carry The dust of Babylon has a particular smell. It’s not like the dust of home—that was dry and chalky, carrying the scent of thyme and sun-baked limestone. This dust is heavier, silt-laden from the great…
Root in Dry Ground
The rain had finally stopped, but the damp clung to everything in the little valley of Ephrathah. It seeped into the cloak of old Micah as he rested against the gnarled trunk of what had once been a great oak….
The Whisper of Small Wonders
The heat in the port of Jaffa was a physical weight, a wool cloak soaked in brine and draped over the shoulders. I, Agur, son of Jakeh, felt it press upon my skull as I watched the Phoenician ships, sleek…
The Scribe Who Heard Creation Sing
The ink was dry, but the words still trembled in the air. Eliab, an old scribe with fingers stained the color of walnuts, shifted on his stool and let the parchment curl in on itself. The predawn hush of Jerusalem…
Delivered from Death’s Door
The noise came first. Not a sound, but its absence—a thick, woolen silence where the rhythm of my own breath should have been. I was lying on my back, staring at the rough-hewn beams of my ceiling, and I realized…
The Pilgrim’s Thirst
The dust of the north road was a fine, pale powder that rose in little puffs with each step, coating the worn leather of Elidad’s sandals and settling in the creases of his tunic. He walked slowly, his staff tapping…