In those distant days, the little parish church in our village never seemed troubled by the passage of time. The air always held a trace of incense; candles flickered gently in the gloom as the congregation bowed their heads, each soul quietly nursing their burdens and silences.
Among them sat an old woman, small and unassuming, her shawl pulled tightly over her brow, hands roughened by a lifetime of toil. She never missed the Sunday service, no matter how her bones ached, no matter that the walk to church with every year seemed longer and steeper.
She never asked much from life.
Only peace.
Only forgiveness.
Only a sliver of heaven.
But on that particular Sunday, something befell her that would forever alter the course of her days. As she carefully rose from her knees, she felt something beneath her worn boot. Bending with effort, she saw ita necklace, laying forgotten on the cold stone floor. It was beautiful, with a heart-shaped locket glinting faintly in the candlelight.
She cradled it in her palm, unmoving. It was still warm, as if someone had only just worn it. Her curiosity took over, and she gently opened the locket.
Inside, she found two tiny photographs.
For a long moment, the floor seemed to fall away beneath her feet. In one of the pictures was a woman, older nowyet with the same arch to her eyebrows, the same look in her eye, the same shape of the lips, the same face. It was like gazing into a looking glass.
The old woman pressed a trembling hand to her lips. She shiverednot from the cold, but from the truth, raw and present.
A truth she had buried deep long ago.
She rememberedit was something shed once heard whispered in the village, half-remembered fragments from childhood: that her mother had given birth to twins. One was frail, tiny. And, driven by desperation, by poverty and fear, her mother had handed one child over at birtha family of doctors, people of means, theyd taken the little girl away.
She, meanwhile, was left behind in the village, with hard earth and harder work, and plenty of tears. All her life, shed dismissed it as just a tale, a fancy, the gossip of villagers.
But that photograph
That was no lie.
And then the old woman did something shed never done before. She closed her hand over the necklace and whispered to herself, I cant return it not until I know whose face that is.
She knew it was wrong. She knew it wasnt hers. But it felt to her as though God Himself had laid it in her path, for a reasonbecause sometimes, He doesnt speak with words, but with signs. With meetings. With misplaced things that, perhaps, were never truly lost.
After the service, the old woman went straight to the vicar, her footsteps uneasy, her heart a tangled knot.
Vicar she murmured, holding out the necklace. I found this on the floor here, in church.
The vicar eyed the locket, then her lined face. Surprise showed in his eyes.
A woman came just the other day, he told her quietly. From the city. She made confession. Cried, she did. Told me shed returned to the village to look for her sister.
The old womans breath seemed to seize.
Sister? she barely managed to utter.
He nodded. She told me she learned only late in life that she was a twin. Said shed always felt something missing, never quite knowing what.
The old woman clutched the edge of the table, the church spinning gently around her.
And the necklace?
Perhaps she dropped it then, the vicar replied. She wore it about her neck. She was ever so moved.
Tears began to stream down the old womans cheeks. But it was not pain she feltit was the rare kind of weeping when your soul senses, after a lifetime of loneliness, that something is about to change.
The vicar sighed deeply and spoke: If you wish, I can take you to her. Shes lodging with a woman in the village until her business is done.
The old woman noddedwords had fled her.
She walked as if in a dream, the necklace gripped tight, the only thing anchoring her to the moment. At the gate of a neat little cottage, the vicar knocked gently.
A woman stood in the doorway, neat and elegant, though her eyes were red from crying. She lifted her gazeand in that instant, both women froze. Nothing was said. There was no need. They were aliketwo halves of the same heart, parted too soon.
Slowly, the old woman produced the necklace and opened it. The woman in the doorway gasped, hand pressed to her lips.
Oh Lord she whispered. Its mine
The old womans voice shook as she answered, I found it in the church and I didnt want to return it Not until I knew who was in that photograph.
The woman began to cry. She stepped forward.
I am your sister.
Something in the old womans chest seemed to finally release. It was not painit was the healing of a wound, at last being tended.
They embraced, tightly, clinging to one another as if holding fast to the very edge of lifeas though, after an eternity, they were finally whole.
And as the villagers watched in awe, the two sisters wept and laughed together, because sometimes God may tarry, but He never forgets. And when He brings back what youve lost, He returns a part of you as well.
Write GOD NEVER FORGETS in the comments if you too believe that nothing happens by chance.
