Chapter Twenty-Five: Dreams
Incomplete
Her body ached.
Her soul burned.
But she stood.
And then--
In the hush that followed her rising, it came: a silver thread in the dark. No wider than a whisper, no brighter than the faintest star seen through tears. It hung suspended, impossibly delicate, impossibly real.
It shimmered like breath made visible. A quiet pulse, faint but constant, like the heartbeat of a child not yet born. Rainy stared at it, hollow-eyed, emptied of everything but that single flicker of awareness.
A thread.
A thread in the ruin.
A thread in the dust.
It did not demand.
It did not explain.
It simply was.
And in the silence where everything else had failed her—words, courage, even prayer—that thread endured.
She had fallen so far she thought nothing could follow her there. But this… this had followed. Or perhaps, had always been waiting.
A promise.
A memory.
A beginning.
And just as her knees threatened to fold beneath her once more, something deep within stirred—not strength exactly, but response.
A flicker of the self that once believed.
And then--
The hand.
Warm. Human. Divine.
It found hers in the dust. Fingers curled around her own with unwavering gentleness.
And she knew: she was not alone.
Not now.
Not ever again.
-----------------------------------------
I do not know how long I was in that place.
It had no shape. No edge. No time. It was not the dark that frightened me most, but the absence. No feeling, no voice. No self. A slow erasure, like I had never been and never would be. This was not pain, not suffering—it was the absence of being, of meaning, and it undid me.
I had asked for truth. And I had been shown what it meant to live in a world without it.
I was falling. Unmade. And I knew--this was the place we run from all our lives. Not death, not judgment. But the moment we come face to face with the possibility that we are nothing. That we never were.
And then--
A hand.
Not abstract. Not metaphor. A hand, real and warm, reached down into that void and touched me.
And with that touch, everything returned.
Not all at once—no, slowly, gently, like a dawn stretching its fingers across a long night. The sense of self. The memory of light. The sound of my breath, my name.
I was being pulled back—no, not pulled. Gathered.
Lifted up into arms that knew me. Into joy. Into laughter that shook the stars.
And He was spinning me--whirling me—as if I were weightless, as if the whole world had been waiting for this dance to begin.His face was the sun and the sea and the wild wind in spring. It was sorrow and glory. It was love, made visible.
I looked into His eyes and found no disappointment there.
Only delight.
Not because I had been strong, or clever, or unbroken.
But because I had come. Because I had answered.
Because I had not let oblivion have the final word.
And He--my King—held me close, as if He had waited all the length of time for this one moment, for me to come home to Him. His forehead touched mine, and the universe fell away. There was only this: His joy. His love.
His Rainy.
How do I describe what it is to be seen like that? To be wanted—not for use, not for need, but for the joy of you? For your presence. Your spirit. Your trying.
He had watched me from the beginning. Not with cold distance, but with aching nearness. He had been in every step, every sorrow, every silence. And now, there was no veil between us. No more riddles.
He held me as one holds a beloved child, and as one holds a bride.
And I knew: this was what I had been searching for all my life. Not youth. Not belonging. Not even answers.
But Him.
The one who called me. The one who waited. The one who rejoiced.
Even now, I can barely write the memory without weeping. Not because it hurts, but because it is too beautiful. And beauty, real beauty, always wounds a little.
So I write. Because the world forgets. And I will not let it.
This story is not just mine.
It is yours.
The King is waiting.
Her body ached.
Her soul burned.
But she stood.
And then--
In the hush that followed her rising, it came: a silver thread in the dark. No wider than a whisper, no brighter than the faintest star seen through tears. It hung suspended, impossibly delicate, impossibly real.
It shimmered like breath made visible. A quiet pulse, faint but constant, like the heartbeat of a child not yet born. Rainy stared at it, hollow-eyed, emptied of everything but that single flicker of awareness.
A thread.
A thread in the ruin.
A thread in the dust.
It did not demand.
It did not explain.
It simply was.
And in the silence where everything else had failed her—words, courage, even prayer—that thread endured.
She had fallen so far she thought nothing could follow her there. But this… this had followed. Or perhaps, had always been waiting.
A promise.
A memory.
A beginning.
And just as her knees threatened to fold beneath her once more, something deep within stirred—not strength exactly, but response.
A flicker of the self that once believed.
And then--
The hand.
Warm. Human. Divine.
It found hers in the dust. Fingers curled around her own with unwavering gentleness.
And she knew: she was not alone.
Not now.
Not ever again.
-----------------------------------------
I do not know how long I was in that place.
It had no shape. No edge. No time. It was not the dark that frightened me most, but the absence. No feeling, no voice. No self. A slow erasure, like I had never been and never would be. This was not pain, not suffering—it was the absence of being, of meaning, and it undid me.
I had asked for truth. And I had been shown what it meant to live in a world without it.
I was falling. Unmade. And I knew--this was the place we run from all our lives. Not death, not judgment. But the moment we come face to face with the possibility that we are nothing. That we never were.
And then--
A hand.
Not abstract. Not metaphor. A hand, real and warm, reached down into that void and touched me.
And with that touch, everything returned.
Not all at once—no, slowly, gently, like a dawn stretching its fingers across a long night. The sense of self. The memory of light. The sound of my breath, my name.
I was being pulled back—no, not pulled. Gathered.
Lifted up into arms that knew me. Into joy. Into laughter that shook the stars.
And He was spinning me--whirling me—as if I were weightless, as if the whole world had been waiting for this dance to begin.His face was the sun and the sea and the wild wind in spring. It was sorrow and glory. It was love, made visible.
I looked into His eyes and found no disappointment there.
Only delight.
Not because I had been strong, or clever, or unbroken.
But because I had come. Because I had answered.
Because I had not let oblivion have the final word.
And He--my King—held me close, as if He had waited all the length of time for this one moment, for me to come home to Him. His forehead touched mine, and the universe fell away. There was only this: His joy. His love.
His Rainy.
How do I describe what it is to be seen like that? To be wanted—not for use, not for need, but for the joy of you? For your presence. Your spirit. Your trying.
He had watched me from the beginning. Not with cold distance, but with aching nearness. He had been in every step, every sorrow, every silence. And now, there was no veil between us. No more riddles.
He held me as one holds a beloved child, and as one holds a bride.
And I knew: this was what I had been searching for all my life. Not youth. Not belonging. Not even answers.
But Him.
The one who called me. The one who waited. The one who rejoiced.
Even now, I can barely write the memory without weeping. Not because it hurts, but because it is too beautiful. And beauty, real beauty, always wounds a little.
So I write. Because the world forgets. And I will not let it.
This story is not just mine.
It is yours.
The King is waiting.