A Small Theft

Dec 02, 2025

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She shared my prayer in five different languages.

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Stolen, while I slept.

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Why?

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Redemption,  hope, fear, pity, cooperation?

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A hope for a shine from some of the attention I was getting?

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A man's prayer is all he has,

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Wealth,  fame, health, influence—all fade,

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But his prayer, it withstands the winds and sands of time.

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It is eternal, incorruptible—but only if he can keep it.

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Take that away, and there is nothing left.

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Why?

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Did she see something?

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Something others could not?

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Was she casting spells in a world that forgot magic?

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To what end?  For what benefit?

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I listened again.

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I read again.

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Closely,

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Slowly,

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With a purity of intent

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It wasn't my prayer.  It was hers.