Share this:
They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow rules. Thirteen years have passed since my father died, and not a single day goes by without me missing him. But when I stepped into his house for the first time since his death, I found something in the attic—something that brought me to my knees in tears.
Grief doesn’t fade away like people say it does. Instead, it burrows deep, hiding in the quiet spaces of your life, waiting for the right moment to remind you of what you’ve lost. For thirteen years, my heart carried the weight of losing my father, Patrick.
He wasn’t just my dad—he was my whole world. After my mother abandoned me at birth, he became everything. He was my fierce protector, my guide, my home. When he died, a part of me died too. The world moved on, but I felt stuck in time, unable to fill the void he left behind.
I never returned to his house after the funeral. I just couldn’t. The silence inside crushed me. Every room still held his presence—the way he used to hum while making coffee, the sound of his laughter echoing off the walls. It was too much.
So I left. But I never sold the house. Something inside me wasn’t ready to let it go. Maybe, deep down, I always knew I would return. And that day came, thirteen years later.
I stood on the front porch, staring at the chipped wooden door. The old copper key felt cold and heavy in my hand. My stomach twisted with nerves.
“You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t just a house. It was the last piece of my father that still remained.
I pressed my forehead against the door, my throat tightening. “Dad,” I choked out, “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
The wind rustled the leaves of the old oak tree in the yard—the same tree my dad had planted the year I was born. I could still hear his words in my mind: “This tree will grow with you, kiddo. Strong roots and branches reaching for the sky.”
I told myself I was only here to get some documents. That was the plan. Get in, grab them, and leave. No lingering. No digging through memories.
But grief doesn’t follow plans. And neither does love.
I turned the key and stepped inside.
“Welcome home, kiddo.” His voice echoed in my head, just like he used to say every time I walked through that door.
It wasn’t real. Just my mind playing tricks. But for a moment, it felt like it was.
Suddenly, I wasn’t 32 anymore. I was 17, stepping inside after school, finding Dad in the kitchen, flipping through the newspaper, waiting to ask me how my day had been.
“Dad?” I called out instinctively, my voice shaky. The silence that followed felt unbearable.
I swallowed hard and forced myself forward, wiping away a tear. Documents. I was here for the documents.
But the house had other plans.
The attic smelled like dust and forgotten years. I pulled open box after box, sifting through papers, trying to stay focused.
But every little thing stopped me.
Dad’s old flannel jacket, still smelling faintly of him. A half-empty can of his favorite mints. A framed picture of us at my high school graduation.
I pressed the flannel to my chest, breathing in the scent. “You promised you’d be at my college graduation,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”
The jacket offered no response, but in my heart, I could almost hear him say, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there.”
I wiped my tears and kept searching. Then, my eyes landed on something tucked behind a stack of books—a worn-out leather bag. My breath hitched. I knew this bag.
With trembling hands, I unzipped it and found a folded note on top. My father’s handwriting. A letter he had written for me years ago.
My fingers shook as I opened it, my vision blurring as I read:
“We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!”
A sob escaped before I could stop it.
“You never got to see me pass them,” I whispered, tears falling onto the paper. “You never knew I did it, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said I would.”
I knew exactly what was inside the bag now.
Our old game console.
Dad and I used to play together every weekend. We had one favorite game—a racing simulator. He was unbeatable, a real champion, and I was terrible at it. Every time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day, you’ll beat me, kiddo. But not today.”
I clutched the console to my chest, the memory hitting me so hard I fell to my knees.
“Remember when I got so mad I threw the controller?” I laughed through my tears. “And you just looked at me and said…”
“It’s just a game, pumpkin. The real race is life, and you’re winning that one by miles.”
I could hear his voice so clearly, it hurt.
I carried the console downstairs, hooked it up to the old TV, and turned it on. The startup music filled the room. And then… I saw it.
A ghost car at the starting line.
Dad’s car.
In this game, when a player set a record time, their ghost car would appear in future races, driving the same path over and over, waiting for someone to beat them.
He had left a part of himself behind. A challenge. A race we never finished.
“Alright, Dad,” I whispered, gripping the controller. “Let’s play.”
The countdown began.
3… 2… 1… GO!
I hit the gas, my car speeding down the track beside his. His ghost car was perfect, like always—flawless turns, perfect acceleration. I could almost hear his laughter. “Come on, pumpkin, you gotta push harder than that.”
“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed, gripping the controller tighter. “You always were a show-off on this track!”
Race after race, I tried to catch him. But just like before, he was always ahead.
“You’re holding back,” I could almost hear him say. “You always do that when you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered. “I just… I’m not ready to say goodbye again.”
And for the first time in thirteen years, it felt like he was there with me.
I finally pulled ahead. The finish line was right there. One more second, and I’d win. One more second, and I’d erase his ghost from the game.
My thumb hovered over the gas button.
“Dad,” I whispered, “if I let you win, will you stay?”
Tears streamed down my face as I eased off the gas, watching his ghost car cross the finish line first.
I didn’t want to erase him. I just wanted to keep playing with him.
“The game is still on, Dad,” I whispered with a smile.
I took the console home that night. And whenever I miss him too much, I turn it on.
Not to win. Just to race with him one more time.
Because some games never end.
Little Girl is Caught Stealing, but When the Cashier Learns Why, She Makes an Unthinkable Decision — Story of the Day
By Allison Lewis
- Published on
- Reviewed by Lianne Mathews
Share this:
Claire never expected a simple theft to shake her to the core—until she caught a child sneaking out with a sandwich. But when she saw the tiny candle flicker on top and heard the whispered birthday song, her heart ached. This wasn’t just shoplifting. It was survival. And Claire had a choice to make.
The Store and Logan’s Cruelty
The scent of fresh bread filled Willow’s Market, mixing with the warm aroma of cinnamon from the bakery section. Claire had worked there for four years, and despite its worn wooden floors and aging shelves, she loved the store. It felt like home.
She straightened jars of homemade jam on the shelves and glanced at the small box beside the register. Inside were handwritten notes she had made for customers, each with kind words like, “Hope today brings you something good” or “You’re stronger than you think.” Some people ignored them, but others, especially the elderly, cherished them like tiny treasures.
Just as she finished tidying up, the door swung open sharply, making the hanging bells jingle too hard. The sound made her tense.
Logan.
Logan was the owner’s son, a man who wanted to turn the small, beloved shop into something cold and profitable, like a liquor store or vape shop. His father, Richard, had refused, saying the neighborhood needed a store like Willow’s Market.
Logan sneered as he walked in, his expensive black wool coat out of place among the rustic charm of the store. “How’s it going, Claire?” he asked casually, but there was something sharp in his voice, like a hidden threat.
“We’re doing well,” Claire said, keeping her tone polite. “I opened early today to get everything ready.”
His eyes landed on her box of notes. He grabbed one and read aloud, scoffing, “Enjoy the little things? What kind of sentimental garbage is this?”
Before she could respond, he knocked the entire box over. Notes scattered across the wooden floor like fallen leaves.
Claire clenched her teeth but knelt down to pick them up, trying to keep her voice calm. “It’s just something nice for customers.”
“This is a business, not a therapy session,” Logan snapped. “If you wanna play philosopher, do it somewhere else. One more mistake, Claire, and you’ll be looking for a new job.”
His words hung in the air like a threat. Then he turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
Claire took a deep breath, her hands shaking as she gathered the notes. She wouldn’t let him ruin this place. Not without a fight.
A Theft with a Story
Later that afternoon, Claire was ringing up Mrs. Thompson, a sweet old lady who always bought fresh bread and a small packet of tea. As she counted out her coins, she gave Claire a warm smile.
“This store is the heart of the neighborhood, dear,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I don’t know what we’d do without it.”
Claire smiled back, her chest easing from the tension Logan had left behind. “That means a lot, Mrs. Thompson.”
Just then, movement near the sandwich shelf caught Claire’s eye. A small figure in an oversized hoodie stood there, shifting nervously.
Claire frowned. “Can I help you find something?”
The kid’s wide brown eyes locked onto hers. Then—they bolted.
“Watch the register for a second?” Claire asked Mrs. Thompson, who waved her off. “Go, dear!”
Claire ran outside, heart pounding as she searched the busy sidewalk. The kid was fast, weaving through the crowd. Almost lost them—but then, an old man sitting on a newspaper pointed lazily down a side street.
“Ran that way, five minutes ago.”
Claire nodded in thanks and hurried forward. She turned a corner—and there the kid was.
Hidden in an alley, the child pulled a sandwich from their pocket. Then, from the other pocket, they took out a tiny candle and a lighter.
Claire’s breath caught.
The child stuck the candle into the sandwich and lit it. A tiny flame flickered.
And then—they sang.
“Happy birthday to me… Happy birthday to me…”
The whisper was barely audible, but it cut through Claire like a knife. The kid closed their eyes, smiled just a little, and blew out the candle.
Claire stepped forward. “You don’t have to run.”
The girl flinched. “You’re not mad?”
Claire shook her head. “I just wish you didn’t have to steal a sandwich for your own birthday.”
The tough shell cracked. The child’s lips trembled.
“Come on,” Claire said gently. “Let’s go back to the store. We’ll get you something to eat. No stealing required.”
After a long hesitation, the girl reached out—and took Claire’s hand.
The Choice That Changed Everything
Back at the store, Logan was waiting, arms crossed, anger written all over his face. “Where the hell were you?”
Claire tightened her grip on the girl’s small, trembling hand. “A child took something,” she said. “I went after her.”
Logan’s eyes darkened. “And instead of calling the police, you brought her back?”
“She’s hungry,” Claire shot back.
Logan smirked and reached for his phone. “I’m calling the cops. Kids like this end up in orphanages.”
The girl flinched, her grip tightening like she was bracing for something awful.
Claire stepped forward. “Logan, don’t. Please.”
“Why not?” he sneered. “You care about your job, don’t you?”
Claire’s pulse pounded. Then, she made a choice.
“I’ll quit if you don’t call the police.”
Logan hesitated. “What?”
“You want me gone, right? If I leave now, you get what you want. Just don’t call.”
Logan studied her, then smirked. “Fine. Pack your things.”
Claire exhaled. She turned to the girl and smiled. “Let’s go.”
The Miracle in the Morning
The next morning, Claire walked into Richard’s office, resignation letter in hand. She expected anger. Instead, Richard smiled.
“Mrs. Thompson told me everything,” he said. “Logan was supposed to take over this place one day… but after what he did? I don’t want someone like him running this store.”
Claire’s breath caught. “Then… who will?”
Richard leaned back, his smile widening. “You.”
Claire nearly dropped her coffee. “Me?”
“You’re not just a cashier, Claire. You’re the heart of this store.”
Tears burned her eyes. She had lost a job. But somehow, she had gained a future.
Abandoned Puppy Becomes the Angel a Grieving Old Man Prayed For
- Published on
- Reviewed by Amy Mcleod
Share this:
Burt had long stopped believing in miracles. At 91 years old, he had lived through enough sorrow to know that life didn’t hand out second chances so easily. He had lost his wife, Martha, and their only son, James, in a car accident decades ago.
Since then, loneliness had become his only constant companion. His days passed in quiet routine, his world shrinking to the walls of his small cottage and the slow, deliberate steps he took on his way to church or the grocery store.
Then, one crisp autumn morning, something changed.
The air was thick with fog as Burt shuffled along his usual path, his cane tapping against the pavement. He wasn’t in a hurry—there was nowhere to be. The world around him was wrapped in a soft gray stillness when a faint sound reached his ears.
A whimper.
Burt frowned, pausing mid-step. The sound was barely there, a tiny cry swallowed by the wind. He turned his head and saw an old, rain-soaked cardboard box tucked against the base of a lamppost. Cautiously, he moved closer and peered inside.
A tiny black and white puppy lay curled up, shivering from the cold. Its fur was damp, its ribs faintly visible beneath its thin coat. But its eyes—large, dark, and full of something Burt hadn’t seen in a long time—hope. A crumpled note was taped to the box. With trembling fingers, Burt pulled it loose and squinted at the scribbled words:
“Take care of him.”
Burt let out a slow breath. He looked around, expecting to see someone—anyone—who might have left the puppy there. But the street was empty. Just him, the fog, and this helpless little creature.
“Well,” he murmured, kneeling down with some difficulty. His old bones protested, but he ignored them. He reached into the box and lifted the puppy into his arms. The tiny body trembled against his chest, but when Burt tucked him inside his coat, the puppy sighed and snuggled closer, as if he already knew he was safe.
Burt wasn’t sure what possessed him to take the puppy home. Maybe it was the way he fit so perfectly against his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart ached at the thought of leaving something so small and alone in the world. Or maybe—just maybe—he was tired of being alone himself.
He named the pup Sebastian. Martha had always wanted to name their second child that, had fate allowed them another. As days turned into weeks, Burt realized he had done more than rescue a stray—he had found a reason to wake up in the morning.
Sebastian became his shadow. He brought Burt his slippers every morning, sat beside him during afternoon tea, and followed him on slow walks through the neighborhood. When Burt returned from errands, Sebastian would be waiting at the window, his whole body wagging with excitement. In a life that had long since lost color, Sebastian painted joy back into it.
For two years, they were inseparable.
Then, one October afternoon, Sebastian vanished.
That morning, the dog had been restless, pacing near the window, ears perked at the distant barking of other dogs. Burt thought little of it, but after letting him out into the fenced yard for some fresh air, he returned to find the gate swinging open.
And Sebastian was gone.
Heart pounding, Burt searched the yard, calling Sebastian’s name. No response. He checked the mailbox—a letter, but no sign of the dog. Had the postman left the gate open? Panic tightened Burt’s chest. He grabbed his cane and started down the street, his voice hoarse from calling out. Hours turned into days, days into weeks.
Burt barely ate, barely slept. The silence of his home was unbearable, the absence of that familiar wagging tail an ache too sharp to ignore.
He put up missing posters all over town:
“MISSING: SEBASTIAN. Beloved family member. Black & white dog with a star-shaped patch on chest. Reward: A home-cooked meal & endless gratitude. Contact: Burt, Maple Avenue.”
People noticed, offering kind words but no real leads. The police were sympathetic but preoccupied.
“Sir,” the desk sergeant sighed, “we have missing persons cases, robberies… we just don’t have the manpower for a lost dog.”
An officer nearby chuckled. “Maybe he ran off with a lady friend!”
The laughter stung. Burt turned to leave when a young officer called out, “Sir! Hold on.”
Officer Charlie. He was different—his eyes held understanding.
“My grandmother had a dog she loved like family,” Charlie said, jotting down Burt’s number. “I’ll keep an eye out, I promise.”
Two weeks later, Burt’s phone rang. It was Charlie.
“Mr. Burt, I was hiking near Old Miller’s property. There’s an abandoned well… I heard barking. I think you should come.”
Burt’s hands shook as he called his neighbor, Tom, for a ride. When they arrived, Charlie was waiting with ropes and flashlights.
“He’s down there, Mr. Burt,” Charlie said. “I saw the white patch when I shined my light.”
Burt’s heart pounded. “Sebastian! My boy, can you hear me?”
A bark echoed from the depths.
Tears blurred Burt’s vision as the fire department arrived, lowering a young firefighter into the well. The whole town had gathered, holding their breath. Then, a rope moved. A firefighter emerged, cradling a thin but very much alive Sebastian.
The moment his paws hit the ground, Sebastian bolted into Burt’s arms, whimpering and licking his face. Burt sobbed, holding him close. “My boy… my precious boy. You scared me.”
A woman in the crowd wiped her eyes. “I watched him search for that dog every day. I’ve never seen love like that.”
Officer Charlie placed a hand on Burt’s shoulder. “Let’s get you both home.”
That night, Burt’s cottage overflowed with people. He made his famous pot roast, fulfilling the promise on his missing posters. The room buzzed with warmth, laughter, and gratitude.
Sebastian, freshly bathed, moved from guest to guest, accepting pats and stolen bites of meat, but he always returned to Burt’s side.
Later, as Burt sat in his chair, Sebastian curled up at his feet.
“You know,” Burt murmured, scratching behind Sebastian’s ears, “when I found that note in the box, it said, ‘Take care of him.’ But the truth is… you’ve been taking care of me all along.”
Sebastian thumped his tail in agreement. For the first time in weeks, Burt felt at peace. His house was no longer just a house. It was a home, filled with love, second chances, and the quiet miracle of two souls who had saved each other.
And that, Burt thought as he drifted to sleep, was the greatest miracle of all.
