Realizing Who She Is
That afternoon, as Grace steps out of the quiet sanctuary of the library, the soft rustle of her footsteps blends with the gentle hum of campus life. She moves steadily toward a section of the university farther away from the bustling Arts and Design faculty building—an area where the crowd thins and the air feels a little cooler, tinged with the faint scent of autumn leaves.
Suddenly, her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down, and her eyes catch the sender's name: the administration office.
Her steps falter mid-stride. The message hangs in the air like a delicate question, pulling at the edges of her thoughts.
A letter from the donor?
Her heart skips—a flutter of surprise, curiosity, and something almost hopeful. She had sent that letter months ago, pouring her gratitude, her quiet admiration, into words that had vanished into the void of silence. Back then, when no reply ever came, she had pushed the hope aside, telling herself not to expect anything.
But now—now the silence has been broken. The donor has reached out.
A sudden rush of anticipation swells within her chest. She wants to know—what words did this mysterious benefactor have for her?
"Thank you," Grace says softly as she takes the letter from the administration office clerk.
"Have a great day," the woman replies with a warm, genuine smile.
"You too. Have a great day," Grace answers, her voice steady but her mind already racing.
Stepping out into the brisk autumn air, Grace feels the cool breeze brush against her face, carrying the faint rustle of falling leaves. The chill isn't biting yet—not winter's harshness—but it's a clear sign that the seasons are turning. She pulls her jacket a little tighter around her, savoring the freshness of the air.
Her fingers itch to tear open the envelope right then and there, but a quiet instinct tells her to wait. To hold onto this moment until she's home, in the privacy of her own space where she can absorb whatever the letter holds without distraction.
When she finally closes the door behind her, Grace moves quickly—washing the sunscreen from her face in the bathroom mirror, wiping away the day's layers. Then she collapses onto the sofa in the living room, the soft cushions welcoming her tired body.
The letter feels weighty in her hands. Her heart flutters with a mixture of nervousness and hope. It's been weeks since Julian's silence after she waited for his call, weeks shadowed by whispered rumors and cold stares in the hallways—weeks that saw her quietly withdrawing from his course, burdened by a sadness she tried desperately to mask.
Yet here she is, holding this simple letter—an unexpected spark in the lingering gloom.
"To Grace Silver," she murmurs, lifting the letter carefully.
She unfolds the paper and begins to read.
I'm sorry my reply is late. I just want to say that I appreciate you writing the letter for me out of gratitude toward me giving your tuition. I just want to say, as long as it helps your situation, I'm happy. I'm happy I was a help to you. I was just wondering, are you all right now? Is your situation all right? And how do you feel these days? I know it's kind of weird to ask you these things and if you don't want to reply, it's all free, all up to you. But I just wanted to ask. And once again, have a good autumn day.
From, Your Secret Donor>
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corners of Grace's lips.
"What a simple but kind letter," she whispers.
She sits up straighter, a quiet resolve settling over her. This is the moment—she'll write back. She welcomes this unexpected connection, this chance to reach out.
Holding a pen, she begins to write, softly reading her words aloud as if the letter might carry her voice directly to the other side.
"Hi, I'm so happy to get your reply. Honestly, I didn't expect to hear back at all. As for my situation, it's both good and bad. Thanks to you—and I truly believe God used you to help me—I'm attending graduate school and things are going well in many ways.
But on the other hand, there's been a challenge. You might already know, since it's been all over the school's online community. There was a rumor started by a picture of me with a professor. The photo is real, but it's not what people think it is.
To be honest, I've been pretty sad about it. Because…"
Her pen hovers, uncertain for a moment. Should she reveal too much? But something about this donor's sincere letter, their gentle questions—it makes her feel safe. This person isn't just a faceless benefactor. They care. And Grace decides she can trust them.
Taking a deep breath, she continues, opening up a secret she's shared with no one but her mother.
Julian's eyes shimmer under the moonlight spilling gently through the living room window, tracing the soft contours of the letter in his hands. The quiet night presses around him like a sacred silence, broken only by the faint rustling of paper as his fingers tremble ever so slightly.
His heart hammers painfully against his ribs, each beat a reminder of the impossible truth unraveling before him.
He leans closer, squinting at the words he's read twice already, as if seeing them again might dissolve the surreal spell they cast. But the words cling stubbornly to reality—words that sound like a whisper from the past and a bridge to something greater than time itself:
His breath catches sharply. The air in the room feels suddenly heavier, almost electric, charged with a timeless energy that hums through his veins.
She's dreaming of the 1920s. Of a man who looks just like him.
A man who saved her once before.
His mind flashes back—faces and moments blurred with age but never forgotten. Hannah. The brave woman he pulled from the jaws of death during a turbulent era, the light in his long, lonely nights.
He feels the weight of his years—the centuries of wandering through shadowed corridors of history, the sacrifices made in God's name, the quiet prayers whispered in darkness.
This moment, this letter, feels like a divine reckoning—a tender hand guiding him toward hope he thought was long lost.
Julian walks slowly to the towering window, the letter trembling in his grasp.
The city sprawls beneath him—a tapestry of light and shadow, a monument to human progress and divine mystery. The glow of skyscrapers and neon signs contrasts with the deep velvet of the night sky.
A hundred years have passed, yet something eternal remains unbroken.
His heart whispers a prayer—a plea for clarity, for courage, for faith.
Is this girl, this Grace, be the second coming of the soul I loved through time?
Could God truly be weaving their lives together once more, stitching a tapestry of redemption and love across the centuries?
Tears prick the corners of his eyes—tears not just of disbelief but of profound gratitude.
For so long, he's carried the burden of loneliness, the sting of unspoken love, the ache of what might have been.
Now, in the stillness of this night, he feels God's unmistakable presence—gentle yet powerful, like a river carving new paths through ancient stone.
This is no accident. No coincidence.
This is grace.
The next morning, Julian stands by the window of his office, finishing the last sip of his coffee. The bitter aftertaste lingers on his tongue, matching the tension in his chest. Outside, the October sky is pale, veiled by thin clouds drifting lazily over the sharp silhouettes of campus rooftops. The wind carries faint swirls of fallen leaves, fluttering like echoes of conversations left unsaid.
He glances at the clock on the wall.
It's around the time the first-period classes usually end. And he knows Grace has class during this time, one of her major courses.
He lowers his head for a moment, closing his eyes.
"Lord… help me. Lead me," he prays softly.
And then, with that quiet plea hanging between his heart and heaven, he pulls out his phone, the numbers of her contact already etched into his mind like a scar.
He presses her number and holds the phone to his ear, each ring stretching like a taut string across his nerves. What if she doesn't pick up? What if she's angry? Indifferent?
The ringing keeps going.
Thirty seconds.
Forty.
Fifty.
"Hello," a low voice finally answers.
His breath almost catches.
It's her.
It's Grace.