read mine here- the sound of silence

Read Mine Here: The Sound of Silence

June 20, 202535 min read

weekend writing prompt #142

Weekend Writing Prompt #142- Through the Psalms

The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. Corrupt are they, and they have done abominable iniquity, there is none that doeth good.

--Psalm 53:1

https://pwecommunity.com/post/wwp142


The Sound of Silence

A distraught Pentecostal teenager prays fervently in the hospital chapel with  a classmate watching from afar.

“Ever hear of a bookshelf?” Trevor Langston stood at Lila Sanchez’s desk.

Lila’s dark eyes met his. She had the deepest, darkest eyes he had ever seen. They sparkled beneath a canopy of long, black lashes that were thick and natural, without a single coat of mascara. “Yeah.”

Her amused, expectant smile gave him pause. Squashing the uncomfortable awareness awakening inside him, he shoved his pen against her Bible. “You should use it,” he growled as the tome toppled to the floor. 

When he reached the classroom door, he turned around to offer a final smirk. Lila wasn’t looking at him. Her serene expression was focused on the paper she doodled on. One hand rested on the Bible sitting safely on her lap. Her crossed leg lifted her skirt hem enough to reveal bright orange ankle socks peeking out of her sneakers.

One word came to mind as he strode down the hall: caution.

He thought of it again as he pulled his pickup out of the school parking lot. 

Caution.

Danger ahead.

That was ridiculous. Lila Sanchez needed to watch out for him. Not the other way around.

As he drove through town, he thought of the way her eyes had sparkled as she looked at him. His pulse quickened again. He hit the brake harder than necessary at the red light, and then punched the gas too hard when the light turned green. 

Pulling into the parking lot of ByteFix, Trevor shoved the gear into park and sat for a moment, staring out the windshield.

The old tech shop sat sandwiched between a laundromat and a payday loan place, its faded green awning flapping in the wind like it was trying to take off. Inside, the lights were always too bright, and the faint scent of solder and microwave burritos clung to everything.

He yanked the door open.

“You’re late,” called Mr. Riggins from behind the counter without looking up.

“You’re always surprised, but I’m always late,” Trevor muttered, dropping his backpack behind the workbench.

The clatter of keyboards and hum of a half-disassembled desktop filled the silence. Normally, this place felt like a refuge—circuits and code made sense. But today, Trevor’s mind kept drifting. Not to anything logical.

Not to repair tickets or motherboards.

But to Bible pages and bright orange socks.

Trevor tapped the keyboard a little too hard, trying to concentrate on the flickering monitor in front of him. It was a standard virus sweep—mindless, routine work. Normally he welcomed it. Computers didn’t stare at you with wide, calm eyes that saw straight through you. They didn’t quote psalms in front of the entire class or wear socks the color of traffic cones.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the swivel chair, letting it squeak in protest.

What was it about her? She wasn’t like the other girls at school—not flashy or fake. No contouring, no flirting, no Instagram filters. Just clear skin, clear eyes, and that Bible she carried like it was a part of her.

He scoffed and rolled his chair toward the workbench, grabbing a dusty laptop someone had dropped off last week. As he flipped it open, Lila’s face flickered behind his eyelids. He tried to blink it away.

She was pretty. Not in an obvious way. Not the kind of pretty that shouted for attention. It was worse. She was the kind of pretty that stayed with you, got under your skin, and made you wonder.

And that bothered him.

She wasn’t just religious—she was all in. No makeup, no jewelry, no sarcasm, no secrets. She had the kind of peace that couldn’t be faked—and the kind of conviction that made you question your own.

Trevor hated that.

He hated how the way she looked at him made him feel like he wasn’t in control.

And he especially hated the fact that he was noticing the curve of her cheekbone and the softness in her smile more than the specs on the laptop in front of him.

“Stupid orange socks,” he muttered under his breath, slamming the laptop shut.

🙏🏼

The screen door creaked and slammed behind him as Trevor stepped into the house.

“Mom?”

Silence.

He frowned, kicking off his shoes by the door. The lights were off, and the air inside felt… wrong. Not just quiet—absent. The faint scent of coffee lingered, but the pot was cold.

“Dad?” he called, louder this time. Both their cars were parked outside. 

Still nothing.

The kitchen table was bare. No leftovers. No takeout wrappers. No Post-It note on the fridge reminding him to reheat something. That alone sent a ripple of unease down his spine. His mom never forgot dinner. Ever.

He opened the fridge anyway, hoping for a sign of normal. Nothing but condiments and a half-empty gallon of milk.

The sound of silence made his skin prickle. Something was off.

Trevor dropped his backpack onto the counter and started digging for his phone. It had to be buried under the mess of loose cords and receipts he kept shoving in the front pocket of his bag. It was probably dead again. As he tugged it out, a hard pounding on the front door made him jump.

He spun around and dropped the phone as the knock came again—fast, frantic.

“Trevor, open up!”

It was Mrs. Kline from across the street, her voice tight and breathless. He yanked the door open.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, honey—” Her face was pale, eyes wide. “It’s Sophie. She—she was hit by a car. They rushed her to the hospital. Your parents went in the ambulance with her. It’s bad.”

His mind blanked. Air vanished from his lungs.

“No. No, she was riding her bike home—she was—”

Trevor’s words stalled in his throat.

“You need to get down there,” Mrs. Kline said gently, her hand trembling as she placed it on his arm. “They’re expecting you.”

He didn’t remember shutting the door behind him.

He didn’t remember grabbing his keys.

All he remembered was caution.

That word again.

And this time, it wasn’t about a girl with dark eyes and orange socks.

🙏🏼

The beep of the monitor was too steady. Too slow.

Trevor stood frozen in the doorway, his feet rooted to the cold hospital tile. The room was too white, too sterile, and somehow too small to contain the nightmare inside it.

Sophie lay in the middle of the bed, dwarfed by tubes and wires. Her blonde hair was matted with dried blood at the crown, and her face was bruised, swollen at the temple, a harsh contrast to her usual bounce and sparkle.

Her right arm was strapped and braced from shoulder to wrist, a grotesque splint of metal and foam. Her leg was elevated and wrapped. The monitor tracked her vitals in green and blue flickers. But it was the sound—the inhuman hiss and whir of the ventilator—that burrowed deepest.

Trevor’s mother stood on one side of the bed, trembling hands pressed over her mouth. His dad had one hand on her shoulder, knuckles white, face pale with helpless rage.

The nurse stood between them, her voice calm and low.

“She’s stable for now. But there’s swelling on the brain. Her clavicle, humerus, and ulna are all fractured. She also tore ligaments in her right calf. The right ankle and leg are sprained, and there’s a hematoma on her right kidney.”

Trevor winced.

“She’s going to be on the vent for at least forty-eight to seventy-two hours. After that, we’ll do a second round of neuro scans to see if she’s… if there’s any brain activity.”

The words hit like a slap.

If.

Any.

Brain activity.

His mom gasped and buried her face in Dad’s chest. His dad—normally so stoic—looked like a wall about to crumble.

“I think,” the nurse said gently, “you two should go home for a little while. Take a shower. Change clothes. You’ve been here for hours already. Trevor can sit with her.”

She turned to him. “If that’s okay.”

Trevor nodded once, jerking his chin downward so no one could see the emotion burning behind his eyes.

His parents reluctantly agreed. His mom bent down, whispering something to Sophie’s ear that cracked in her throat. His dad kissed her forehead and gave Trevor a lingering pat on the shoulder before walking out behind the nurse.

Then came the silence.

Except it wasn’t silence.

It was the hiss-click-hiss of the ventilator, forcing breath into lungs that wouldn’t breathe on their own.

It was the monitor ticking away seconds like it was timing her goodbye.

It was the scream of stillness—louder than anything Trevor had ever heard.

He pulled the chair closer to the bed, then sank into it, resting his arms on the edge of the mattress. Her hand—bruised, limp, and speckled with IV tape—lay exposed. He didn’t dare touch it.

“This isn’t funny, Soph,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’re the loud one. The annoying one. The one who sings at full volume at 7 a.m. and makes sock puppets out of my clean laundry. You’re supposed to be dancing in the living room and spilling cereal all over the floor… not lying here like… like this.”

His chest tightened.

She was only ten.

She had talked nonstop, laughed loud, made friends everywhere, wore glittery shoes even when they didn’t match.

And now…

Now the machine breathed for her.

Trevor buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. The silence of her spirit—that was what hit hardest.

And then—like a light flicking on in a dark room—he remembered.

Just last week, Sophie had said something to him after school.

“You didn’t have to be mean to that nice church girl, you know.”

He’d laughed her off, rolled his eyes. “She needs to get a thicker skin.”

Sophie had narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms like only a little sister could.

“She’s not weak, Trevor. She’s just kind. There’s a difference. You were being a bully.”

He blinked now, staring at the tiny rise and fall of her chest under the blanket.

A fresh image ambushed his mind:

Lila Sanchez, serene and composed, doodling calmly as he tried to provoke her.

The softness in her face.

The brightness of those ridiculous orange socks peeking out beneath her skirt.

The calm way she looked at him… as if she wasn’t afraid of him, or angered by him—only sorry for him.

Something twisted in his stomach.

Lila.

Sophie.

The room buzzed and clicked and breathed. But Trevor sat in stillness.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt small.

🙏🏼

Trevor barely waited for the sliding ICU doors to close before bolting down the hall.

His parents had returned, eyes red and tired but relieved to see Sophie unchanged. He couldn’t bear the way his mom clung to her hand or the way his dad whispered her name like a broken prayer.

He just needed air.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital seemed to press down on him, thick and suffocating. He shoved through the exit doors and stumbled out into the night, where the cold slapped his face and the wind pulled at the edges of his jacket.

Concrete and grass. A row of trees beyond the back lot.

Trevor didn’t care where he ended up—he just kept moving, arms crossed tightly across his chest, as if he could hold himself together.

But he was unraveling.

He staggered behind a bench near the edge of the parking lot, crouched behind the half-dead shrubs, and sank to his knees.

And then he cried.

Not the kind of tears you can blink back. Not a sniffle or a sigh. These tears came hot, heavy, and messy, pulled from the center of everything.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, furious with himself.

“This is stupid,” he muttered aloud. “Crying won’t fix her.”

His voice cracked, and that made him even angrier.

He looked up at the sky—dark, cloudless, cold—and let the sarcasm drip.

“You watching, Big Guy?” he spat. “Enjoying the view? Another little human busted up in your ant farm?”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound scraping the back of his throat.

If there was a God, He was cruel.

If there was a God, He could have stopped it. A flick of a finger, a breath, a whisper—and Sophie could’ve been spared.

But He didn’t.

And Trevor was supposed to believe some celestial sky daddy cared?

No.

No way.

He wasn’t brainwashed like the rest of them. Not like his mom whispering prayers over Sophie’s broken body. Not like his dad talking to a ceiling like it could answer him.

And definitely not like Lila Sanchez—prim, proper, long-skirted Lila who probably thought all of this was “part of God’s plan.”

He scoffed aloud. “If I were like them, at least I’d have someone to yell at.”

Someone to blame.

Someone to demand answers from.

But there was no one. No God. No meaning. No reason.

Just the awful randomness of a world that didn’t care.

Trevor rocked back onto his heels and stared up at the stars.

His fists were clenched in his jacket pockets.

His throat ached from crying.

His heart thudded like it had something to prove.

And he felt emptier than ever.

🙏🏼

The cheap cheeseburger had tasted like cardboard.

Trevor had forced down three bites, chewing slowly, robotically, while the fluorescent lights of the hospital cafeteria buzzed like they had something to prove. His stomach turned with every swallow, but his parents had insisted.

“You have to eat something,” his mom had whispered, pushing the greasy paper bag toward him.

Now, he was back in the main hallway, head pounding, mouth dry, and stomach rolling. He paused by the vending machines to steady himself, knuckles white on the edge of the counter. The cold air of the corridor felt good on his face, but it couldn’t cool the fire churning behind his ribs.

There’s no God. There’s no plan. Sophie’s lying half-dead in a bed, and no amount of praying is going to fix it.

And yet…

Somewhere down the hall, drifting like smoke through the sterile air, came a sound.

Soft.

Melodic.

Otherworldly.

Trevor blinked. At first, he thought it might be music playing over the intercom—something classical or instrumental. But as he turned the corner, the sound grew stronger, fuller. Voices. Harmonies. A single, clear female voice rising in prayer.

He stopped walking.

His eyes landed on a simple sign bolted to a door in bold, serif letters:

CHAPEL

Trevor snorted, the sound dry and bitter.

Of course.

He should’ve turned around.

Everything in him screamed to.

God isn’t real. You don’t belong in there. Religion is a scam, a fairy tale for the desperate.

But the sound…

It wasn’t just music. It was peace, flowing through the cracks of his brokenness.

It wasn’t fake—it was full. Deep. Alive.

Without realizing it, Trevor sank to the floor just outside the chapel door, his back pressed against the wall.

Eyes closed. Fists unclenched.

The song continued. Gentle, reverent. Words floated in and out—“Jesus,” “worthy,” “holy.” And then…

He thought he heard it.

Barely a whisper, but there.

“Sophie.”

His eyes flew open.

Had they said her name?

He pressed his ear closer to the door, straining, heart pounding.

The voices faded into prayer now—some of it in English, some in something else he didn’t recognize, but he could feel the emotion in every syllable. 

It should have seemed foolish to him.

Instead, it made his throat tighten and his eyes sting.

Trevor curled his knees up to his chest and laid his head back against the wall.

He didn’t believe in God.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

But somehow, this sound—these voices—made the silence in his soul feel a little less unbearable.

🙏🏼

Trevor hadn’t moved from his spot outside the chapel.

The music had quieted now, and the hum of fluorescent lights returned to fill the silence.

The door creaked softly, and Trevor leaned back into the shadows instinctively.

It opened.

Two girls stepped out.

Lila Sanchez—poised, modest, radiant in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or sparkle. Her hair flowed down her back in a dark, glossy wave, uncut and unstyled, just free.

And beside her: Emily Sellers, a junior like Lila. She wore a denim skirt and a loose ponytail, chatting softly as they turned to walk down the corridor.

Neither of them saw Trevor, half-hidden behind the corner wall.

But his breath caught.

Emily.

Sophie had gone to Sunday school with her. She used to get picked up in a blue minivan once a month when their mom worked a double and didn’t realize what Sophie had agreed to. She’d come home clutching coloring pages and memory verses, talking a mile a minute about Bible stories, donuts, and songs with motions.

And always—always—about Lila.

He hated the way Lila Sanchez invaded everything about his life. They shared four classes this year. She even came into his work once to get the screen on her laptop fixed. He hated the way Sophie had begun to talk about her all the time. He couldn’t get away from her. And he hated how her voice in prayer—those strange, melodic words—lingered longer than any song on the radio.

Trevor blinked hard as another memory crashed into him, sharp and clear:

Sophie, flopped on her bed in her pink, ruffled gown, hugging a stuffed unicorn.

“Emily says you’re mean to Sis. Lila at school. Why are you mean to her? She’s the prettiest and best girl in the world.”

He had rolled his eyes, but she had kept going.

“I want to be just like her when I grow up. She has the longest and prettiest hair. And she wears the most beautiful princess dresses to church. And sings like a real angel.”

He hadn’t said much then. Just grunted and teased her about glitter.

But now…

Now the ache in his chest sharpened like a blade.

Sophie looked up to Lila. Sophie wanted to be like her.

And he’d made fun of it. Told her that her hair didn’t matter. That nobody cared if she wore jeans instead of skirts. That church was just for weird people who needed rules.

But it mattered to her.

He’d dismissed it all—mocked it, even—because he didn’t believe.

But she did.

And now, lying broken in that ICU bed, Sophie might never wear another princess dress. She might never sing another Sunday school song. Never grow her hair long or take notes in a little pink journal.

His heart clenched like a fist in his chest.

“I’m sorry, Soph,” he whispered hoarsely.

His eyes burned again, and this time, he didn’t fight the tears.

“If you wake up… if you live… I’ll never tell you not to go again. I won’t laugh at your memory verses or your stupid donut songs. I won’t say a word about your hair or your dresses or your favorite church girl.”

His throat closed.

“If it matters to you… then it matters to me.”

The hallway was empty now. The chapel door had clicked shut behind the girls.

But Trevor stayed there, curled into the corner, whispering vows into the stillness like prayers he didn’t know how to name.

He wasn’t sure he believed in anything yet.

But he believed in Sophie.

And for now… that was enough.

🙏🏼

The ICU waiting room was dim, save for the flickering light of a muted TV in the corner, looping the same local news broadcast no one was watching.

Trevor had pushed three stiff chairs together, their metal arms jabbing into his sides no matter how he twisted. He had rolled up his hoodie as a pillow and stretched out the best he could, but the chairs weren’t built for rest.

None of this was.

Across the room, his dad was slumped in a chair near the window, legs crossed, arms folded, the gentle rhythm of his breathing steady as waves. Trevor had always thought of his dad as impenetrable, a pillar. But now, even that pillar was crumbling slowly under the weight of grief.

His mom was in with Sophie now. Her shift.

They had started rotating in two-hour turns, trading off like soldiers on guard duty—one with Sophie, one resting, and one waiting. But Trevor couldn’t call what they were doing resting. His mother’s quiet sobs still rang in his ears from earlier, even though the door had been shut. The kind of cries that hollow you out. The kind that echoed in a place words couldn’t reach.

Trevor had offered to take the last shift. He couldn’t hear that sound anymore. It shredded him.

He shut his eyes, trying to let the hush of his dad’s breathing lull him into something close to sleep. His limbs finally relaxed. The ache in his back dulled. His thoughts slowed.

And for a brief, breathless moment, sleep pulled him under.

But it didn’t last.

It ended abruptly.

With a screech. And a sickening thud. A scream—his mother’s voice, sharp and blood-soaked—Then… silence.

Trevor bolted upright, heart slamming into his ribs, breath shallow.

His pulse thundered as he looked around wildly. The fluorescent lights. The waiting room. Still here. Still real.

Just a dream.

Only a dream.

But his hands were trembling.

He wiped his face, surprised to find it damp with sweat. Or maybe tears.

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his knees, head in his hands. His heart still wouldn’t slow down.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered to the dark. “It has to be.”

Even though he was at work. Even though he had no idea Sophie was riding her bike.

Still—what if?

What if he’d picked her up?

What if he’d been home?

What if she’d asked him to play corn hole or volleyball like she usually did?

What if he had said yes?

What if she never even got on that bike?

She might still be safe. Singing. Laughing.

Now, she lay broken in that sterile room with tubes in her body and wires on her head, and no one knew if her brain was even still alive.

His stomach twisted. He leaned over the edge of the makeshift bed and retched dryly, but there was nothing left.

Just guilt.

And that echoing screech.

🙏🏼

Trevor didn’t remember falling asleep again. He only remembered the dream.

It was Sophie.

She was dressed in white—glowing, almost—but not like a hospital gown or a dress-up costume. It shimmered, like starlight, and her hair hung long and loose down her back. She looked… older. Serene. Unnaturally calm.

She stood at the edge of a field, golden and endless, her bare feet in the grass. A figure stood behind her—tall, indistinct, bright—and he knew, somehow, without seeing, that it was God.

Sophie turned and smiled at him. The smile that used to light up their living room.

“It’s okay, Trev. I’m happy here.”

“No,” he had whispered, desperate. “You have to come back.”

Her face tilted with that stubborn tilt she used when she made up her mind.

“I don’t want to leave. It’s perfect here.”

And then she turned away, slowly fading into the light.

Trevor tried to scream, but no sound came. His feet wouldn’t move. The field stretched longer, further, unreachable—

He jolted upright on the hard chairs, gasping, his chest aching like he’d been punched.

“No,” he said aloud, breathless, shaking. “No—Sophie—please.”

His dad stirred but didn’t wake. The waiting room was still, dark except for the faint glow of morning seeping through the blinds.

Trevor couldn’t sit there a second longer.

He got up, nearly stumbling as he pushed through the doors and walked—no, wandered—until his feet brought him back to the one place that had felt remotely comforting the day before.

The chapel.

He opened the door slowly.

Gone was the warm sound of voices. Gone was the golden glow of harmony and prayer. No songs in unknown tongues. No presence pressing gently into the room like the breath of heaven.

Just silence.

Just a few empty chairs and a cold wooden altar.

Just sterile air and a fake plant wilting in the corner.

A cross on the wall.

A stack of old hymnals.

It felt hollow.

Dead.

Trevor stepped inside, hugging his arms to his chest. The cold was different here—not just physical, but emotional. Like something had been taken away.

He sat down in the last row and stared at the front, where someone had left a single flickering LED candle on a table.

It did nothing to warm the space. Nothing to stir the comfort he’d felt the night before. When Lila had been there. When Emily’s voice had mingled with hers in that strange, beautiful melody.

He closed his eyes and waited.

Nothing happened.

No peace. No presence. No feeling.

Just silence.

This chapel, without their voices, without that kind of prayer, was just a box with a cross in it.

His hands tightened into fists.

He wanted to believe in something—anything. But right now, all he had was absence.

🙏🏼

The next day brought no change.

No eye movement.

No response to touch.

No miracle.

The doctors were cautiously hopeful, but Trevor didn’t hear them anymore. He only heard the hiss of the ventilator and the words from his dream.

“I don’t want to leave. It’s perfect here.”

He couldn’t shake it.

He stared at her face for hours, willing it to twitch, blink, breathe on its own. But it never did.

He paced. He sat. He stared at the stained ceiling tiles. He wandered the halls. But always, inevitably, his feet brought him back to the chapel.

Each time, he hoped for a whisper of what he’d felt that first night—when Lila and Emily had sung, and the room had seemed to breathe with something real.

But now…

Nothing.

The chapel gave him nothing.

No peace.

No warmth.

No hope.

Only silence.

He sat on the back pew with arms crossed, shoulders hunched, and heart hollowed out. The sunlight filtered through the small stained-glass window above, casting dusty patterns on the floor. But even the light felt cold here—like it didn’t know how to comfort.

If Sophie died… would she really go to heaven?

What if there wasn’t one?

What if everything Lila believed in was just a pretty story for people who couldn’t face the dark?

But then—what if she was right?

He couldn’t bear the thought of Sophie’s smile, her laughter, her sparkle—all of her—just becoming nothing. Just… gone.

Trevor dropped his head into his hands.

Please, he thought. Just something. Anything. Let her live.

🙏🏼

The door creaked.

He didn’t move.

Soft footsteps echoed across the chapel floor.

Trevor looked up, just enough to see her.

Lila.

She didn’t see him.

Tears streamed down her face as she walked past him, barely noticing his shadow in the back pew. She moved to the front, dropped to her knees at the altar, and buried her face in her hands.

Then she began to pray.

Not quietly. Not politely.

But like someone pouring her soul into the heavens.

Trevor didn’t understand the words. Some were English, but others… weren’t. That language again. That fluid, mysterious flow that should’ve sounded like nonsense—but didn’t.

It sounded like music.

Like pleading.

Like something alive.

As she prayed, the room changed.

He felt it—not in his mind, but in his chest, in the air. Like the whole chapel was exhaling. Like a warmth that wasn’t physical brushed his skin.

He stared at her.

At her tears. At her passion. At the way her voice trembled, then soared.

For a moment, he wanted to believe just so he could understand it.

When her prayer finally slowed, Lila sat back on her heels, breathing heavily, wiping her face. She stood, brushing her skirt down and turning to leave.

Then she saw him.

She froze.

Her eyes widened. Her cheeks flushed deep red.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Trevor shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”

He looked at her—really looked.

The flush on her cheeks. The tear stains. The way her eyes still glistened with the echo of her prayer.

“Why do you care?” he asked, voice rough with exhaustion.

Her brow furrowed.

“About Sophie?”

He nodded.

She walked a few steps closer and folded her hands in front of her. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

“Because my heart overflows with love for her. She’s precious to me. She brings joy into every room she walks into. And… I care about you. And your parents.”

She looked away for a moment. When she looked back, tears had gathered again.

“I can’t imagine not seeing Sophie in Sunday school again. I can’t imagine never hearing her sing or watching her color during the lesson. I… I know heaven would be beautiful if Jesus took her there. I believe that with all my heart. Streets of gold, perfect peace, no pain or tears.”

Her voice broke. “But I’m not ready to let her go yet. So I pray. I pray the Lord lets us have more time with her here.”

Trevor’s chest ached again, but in a different way.

“I wish,” he said, swallowing hard, “I wish I could believe like you do.”

“You can,” she said gently.

“No. I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe. I can’t. It’s not in me.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I’m scared, Lila. I’m scared she might die. And if she does… what if there’s nothing? What if she just… stops existing? What if all that she is just… disappears?”

Lila stepped closer.

“Trevor,” she said softly, “God is not limited by your unbelief.”

He looked up slowly.

“The Bible says,” she continued, “that God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith. It’s in there. Romans 12:3. That means you already have it.”

He didn’t respond. His throat was too tight.

She stepped back toward the altar, placing one hand on its edge as she spoke.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just… start where you are. Talk to Him. Even if you’re angry. Even if you don’t believe. He hears.”

Trevor blinked, tears threatening again.

He still didn’t know if he believed.

But he was beginning to hope that maybe, just maybe…

God believed in him.

🙏🏼

The air in Sophie’s room hadn’t changed.

It still smelled like antiseptic and quiet despair. The ventilator still breathed for her in hollow rhythm. The heart monitor still beeped in calm indifference.

But something else… something Trevor couldn’t name… felt different.

He stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes fixed on his sister’s face. Her swelling had gone down slightly. Her bruises were still there, but less angry. More faded. As if the storm was starting to recede.

His dad stood to the right, holding her tiny hand in his large one. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently. Trevor didn’t have to guess—he was praying.

His mother sat in the corner chair, clutching a crocheted blanket someone from church had dropped off earlier. Her Bible rested on her lap, unopened. She didn’t move, but her eyes never left Sophie.

Trevor hadn’t told them about the chapel.

About Lila.

About the dream.

He hadn’t told them how the silence used to comfort him—how now, it only made him afraid.

He stepped closer, hands dropping to his sides, gaze still locked on Sophie.

Then it happened.

Her fingers twitched.

Just barely.

Just once.

So small it could’ve been a reflex.

But her hand moved.

Trevor’s breath caught.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, eyes wide.

His dad’s head snapped up. “What?”

“She moved,” Trevor said, louder now, pointing. “Her hand. She moved her fingers.”

His mom rushed to the bedside. All three of them stared, waiting.

Nothing.

Trevor’s heart sank for a moment. Maybe it was just a reflex. Just a muscle twitch.

And then—

There it was again.

The faintest flutter.

Not a full movement. Not a miracle.

But something.

His mother gasped. His father exhaled a shaky prayer of thanks.

Trevor just stood there, blinking fast.

It wasn’t enough to call the doctor. Not yet.

But it was enough to call it hope.

For the first time in days, Trevor felt like maybe… just maybe, someone was listening.

🙏🏼

The cafeteria was nearly empty—just the hum of the soda machine, the occasional beep of a microwave, and the quiet clatter of trays from a distant kitchen.

Trevor and his mom sat across from each other at a corner table, two half-empty coffee cups between them. Neither had eaten. Both stared at their drinks like they held answers.

“I’m glad she moved her hand,” his mom said quietly, voice raw but steadier than it had been in days. “It’s something.”

Trevor nodded, slowly swirling the coffee in his paper cup.

There was a long silence before he spoke. “Mom… can I ask you something?”

She looked up at him, eyes still red-rimmed but soft. “Of course.”

“Do you remember when my dog died? Second grade. Max?”

She blinked, surprised. “Yes. You cried yourself to sleep for a week.”

“I prayed every night that week,” he said, his voice flat. “I begged God not to let him die.”

His mother didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

Trevor stared at the swirl in his cup. “Max was my best friend. I didn’t have friends at school. I was weird. Too smart. Too quiet. But Max was always there when I got off the bus. Always happy to see me. He made me feel… safe.”

He swallowed hard. “So when he got sick, I prayed. Every night. I even asked you to help me. You said God hears even the smallest prayers.”

Her hand twitched across the table, but she didn’t reach for him. Not yet.

“And then… Max died.” His jaw tightened. “I kept waiting for God to answer. But He didn’t.”

Silence again.

“And I figured…” He looked up at her, eyes pained but open. “Either God didn’t care, or He wasn’t real. And not caring was almost worse. So I decided He just didn’t exist.”

His mom’s face crumpled slightly, but she didn’t speak.

“And ever since then, when people prayed, it seemed… silly. Like wishful thinking. Especially people like Lila Sanchez. She’s… too perfect. Too calm. And Sophie thinks she’s some kind of saint.”

Trevor let out a bitter breath. “That always bugged me.”

“Why?” his mom asked gently.

“Because Sophie looked up to her like she had all the answers,” he muttered. “And I didn’t want Sophie to grow up… foolish. Believing in fairy tales.”

He stared down at the table, voice low. “But now…”

His voice cracked.

“Now the scariest thought in the whole world is that maybe I was right. That there is no God. That Sophie might die and then… just be gone. No heaven. No soul. Just nothing.”

His mother reached across the table then, placing her hand gently over his.

He didn’t pull away.

“I don’t want that to be true,” he whispered. “I can’t… live with that.”

Tears filled his eyes again.

“I need there to be a God, Mom. Someone I can pray to. Beg. Bargain with. Someone to tell how young she is. How much she still has ahead of her. Someone I can plead with to give her another chance… because I’d trade places with her in a second.”

He covered his face with his hands, choking on his own breath.

“I need someone to hear me, Mom. Because if she dies and there’s no God… then there’s just darkness. And I don’t think I can survive that.”

His mother’s hand held his tighter now, her own tears falling freely.

“There is a God, Trevor,” she said softly. “Even when you stopped believing, He never stopped being real. Or loving you. Trevor’s mother squeezed his hand as he stared down at the coffee cooling between them.

“I hope so,” he whispered. “Because I’m begging.”

🙏🏼

The chapel was quiet.

Trevor stood just inside the door, hesitant. The silence that had once felt cold and empty now wrapped around him like a fragile hush.

This time, he wasn’t there to prove something.

He was there because he had nowhere else to go.

He walked slowly down the aisle, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, heart pounding like it might break.

No one else was there.

No music.

No Lila.

Just him, the cross on the wall, and the ache in his soul.

He sat down on the front pew. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Then he whispered:

“God…”

The word felt strange in his mouth. Heavy.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

His voice cracked. He bowed his head, resting his forearms on the back of the pew in front of him.

“I’m not even sure if You’re real,” he admitted. “I’ve said You’re not. I’ve said a lot of things.”

He closed his eyes.

“I love her so much. I’d give anything to have her back.” His voice trembled.

His hands clenched.

“I’m not asking because I’m good. I’m not. I’m messed up. I’ve made fun of people who believe in You. I’ve made fun of Lila. Of Sophie. I’ve laughed at the things that mean the most to them.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“But I’m here now. And if You’re there—if You’re real—I need You. I need You to hear me.”

The silence thickened—but it wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full.

A gentle warmth settled over him. Not on his skin, but deeper—in his chest, in his breath, like something unseen was folding around him.

Peace.

It didn’t answer his questions.

It didn’t erase his pain.

But it was comfort.

It was presence.

And Trevor began to cry—not from fear this time, but from relief.

A sound broke the stillness.

The chapel door burst open.

Trevor jerked up, startled, wiping his face.

A nurse stood in the doorway, breathless.

“Trevor Langston?”

He stood, heart instantly in his throat. “Yes?”

She was smiling. “Your sister just opened her eyes.”

For a split second, the world stopped.

Then he ran.

🙏🏼

The sanctuary still buzzed with post-service chatter and laughter, the kind that lingered long after the final “Amen.” Children darted between pews, teens gathered near the instruments, and families lined the foyer shaking hands and swapping stories.

Trevor stood off to the side, straightening the collar of his shirt for the fifth time. He adjusted the towel draped over his arm and tried not to look nervous.

Lila spotted him first.

She grinned, walked up behind him, and lightly kicked the side of his leg.

“You ready for this?” she asked, dark eyes shining.

Trevor turned and smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I am.”

Lila’s smile widened.

At that moment, Sophie bounded out of the restroom wearing a modest navy blue swim dress, her ponytail bouncing as she walked toward them.

Lila laughed. “Hey! You getting baptized again?”

Sophie struck a dramatic pose, both hands on hips. “Nope! But I’m making sure Trevor goes all the way under. I’m not going to let a single hair float up!”

Trevor burst out laughing. So did Lila. He caught sight of the faint scar on Sophie’s neck, just under her ear—slightly darker when she laughed this hard

His laughter caught in his throat.

That scar.

That laugh.

That life.

He looked at her—his miracle sister—and praise welled up in his chest like a flood.

“Thank You, Jesus,” he whispered, but the whisper wasn’t enough.

Gratitude rushed through him—hot, overwhelming, unstoppable. His heart soared like it had that morning in the chapel when the peace came. When everything changed.

He lifted his hands slightly, eyes closing.

And then it happened.

His tongue thickened, trembled. Words formed from somewhere deeper than thought, deeper than language.

A sound rose up—worship.

Uncontainable.

Unashamed.

The Spirit swept over him like wind and water, joy rising from the marrow of his bones.

Lila stepped back slightly, eyes glistening, reverent. Sophie’s grin widened. She twirled in circles, her own hands raised in praise.

God had saved his sister.

God had saved him.

And now he would bury the old man, so full of doubt, under the water and rise again—washed, reborn, Spirit-filled.

🙏🏼

The morning was still.

Golden light filtered across the porch, warming the worn pages of Trevor’s Bible as he sat with a mug of coffee, wrapped in a hoodie, his bare feet tucked beneath the chair.

Psalm 53:1 stared back at him.

“The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God…”

He had been that fool.

Had said it. Believed it. Mocked the very idea of a God who cared.

But now…

Now the silence around him didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

Alive.

There was no thunder, no wind, no shouting voice from heaven. Just the birds chirping in the tree line, the rustle of the breeze, and the faint creak of the porch swing beside him.

And yet—the silence radiated with grace.

Mercy hummed in every breath of morning air.

Trevor closed his eyes and let the peace settle deep.

“Thank You,” he whispered.

Not just for Sophie’s life, though he’d never stop praising for that.

But for his own.

For the heart that had been cracked open.

For the truth that had pierced the silence.

For a God who had never stopped listening, even when Trevor had stopped speaking.

A creak and a thump interrupted his prayer.

Sophie burst through the screen door, barefoot and bright-eyed, her hair still damp from her morning shower.

“Trevor!” she grinned. “Did you invite Lila over for dinner again?”

He smirked, setting his Bible aside. “I did.”

Sophie clapped her hands and spun in a circle. “I can’t wait!”

Trevor laughed softly as she disappeared back into the house, her joy echoing through the walls.

The porch fell quiet again.

And this time, the silence sounded like a promise.

The End

🙏🏼

(C) 2025 Wendi S. Harrington


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Original blog post can be found at https://pwecommunity.com/post/prompted-the-song-of-her-soul

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