“Dead serious, Mike,” Eleanor nodded. “My grandmother, Sarah, told me long ago—back before the Great Depression—that our family was meant to return this to the valley when the time was right. And the time is now.” They walked in silence for a few minutes. Mike wondered if she was a bit confused, but her speech was clear and her gaze was steady. It was just the story that was strange. He decided to push a little: “So, you’ve been hiding this all these years?”
“Hidden away, son. Nearly sixty years,” Eleanor confirmed. “First from the bank foreclosures, then just kept safe in the cellar. It sat in a crate under the stairs. But it’s time for it to be out in the light again. I felt it in my bones.” Mike grunted. The scent of pine mixed with the smell of warm earth as they navigated the soft needles of the trail. He knew these woods like the back of his hand, every turn and every tree, and now this woman was bringing some “treasure” into his quiet world.
“Eleanor,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “Oak Creek isn’t exactly a religious hub. We’ve got eight hundred people, and most of them only see the inside of a church for weddings and funerals. Why bring it here?” Eleanor looked at him as if she could see right through his uniform. Her eyes were a pale, peaceful gray. “Things change, Mike,” she said softly. “You’ll see. Everything changes.” Mike wanted to argue, but he didn’t have the heart to bicker with an old woman.
They kept going, shifting the bag between them when the rope started to bite into their palms. Through the canopy, the sky was opening up—a sign they were reaching the edge of the woods. “Where exactly are you planning to leave this?” Mike asked as the first fences of the town appeared. “I don’t know yet,” Eleanor admitted. “I figured I’d ask around. It needs a good spot. Somewhere open.” Mike thought for a second.
In the center of town, there was a vacant lot. About five years ago, the county had planned to build a new community center there, even poured a partial foundation, but the budget dried up. Now it was just overgrown with weeds and tall grass. “There’s a spot,” he said tentatively. “Right downtown. Nobody’s using it, and it’s a big lot.” They reached the first houses, and Mike’s curiosity finally won out. He stopped, lowered the bag, and rubbed his sore fingers. “Can I see it?” he asked. “I’d like to know what I’ve been hauling.”
Eleanor hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly nodded. “I’ll show you, Mike. Just… take a breath.” She knelt down, her thin fingers working the knots in the rope. Mike stood over her, arms crossed. The air seemed to grow still, the birds went quiet, and even the wind died down in the pines. Eleanor pulled back the heavy canvas, and Mike froze.
A statue of the Virgin Mary looked up at him. It was about three feet tall, and he couldn’t look away. The wood was dark—walnut, maybe—and polished to a deep luster by generations of hands. Her face was serene but firm, her hands clasped in prayer. The carving was exquisite, the kind of craftsmanship you don’t see anymore. But it wasn’t just the beauty of the piece. Mike felt it the second the bag opened: a sensation like a physical wave passing through him, hot and cold at the same time.
Goosebumps broke out on his arms, and his heart gave a heavy thud. His fingers twitched, and he shoved them into his pockets. It was ridiculous; he wasn’t a religious man, didn’t believe in signs or wonders. He’d grown up in a secular world, taught that faith was something for the history books, yet here he was, shaking like a leaf in front of a piece of wood. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Eleanor asked quietly, smoothing the edge of the canvas.
“It’s… old,” Mike managed to say, trying to sound indifferent. “Probably worth a lot of money.” He turned away, pretending to scan the horizon. The backyards were only fifty yards away—sagging fences, plastic greenhouses, tomato patches. It was a normal summer day. Nothing special. “So, where’s this lot?” he asked, sharper than he intended. Eleanor didn’t answer right away.
She tied the rope back around the bag, carefully, as if she were tucking in a child. Then she stood up, adjusted her scarf, and nodded. “Lead the way, Mike. I’m right behind you.” They cut through the back alleys. Mike walked fast, not looking back, though the bag was heavy on his side. His hands were still trembling, and he was angry at himself for it, chalking it up to low blood sugar or the heat. It was just a statue. Nothing more.
The center of Oak Creek was empty. The hardware store was closed for lunch, the town hall was quiet, and only a couple of older ladies were sitting on a bench near the post office, gossiping. They watched Mike and the stranger with curious eyes but didn’t say a word. The lot was right behind the old theater, fenced off by a leaning wooden perimeter. The gate had rotted off its hinges long ago. Mike nudged a piece of the fence with his boot, and it groaned in protest.
“Here,” he said, dropping the bag. “This was supposed to be the community center. They laid the foundation, ran out of cash, and now it’s just a field.” The lot was waist-high in weeds, with concrete footings poking out of the dirt like gray teeth. It was an eyesore, but it was central. Eleanor walked the perimeter slowly, looking at the ground as if searching for something specific. “This is the place,” she finally said, stopping right in the center. “We’ll leave her here.”
Mike helped her drag the bag to the spot. Eleanor untied the rope again, this time completely, and pulled the statue free. It stood upright now, surrounded by weeds, rising above the messy grass. The sun hit the dark wood, making it glow. Eleanor knelt right there in the dirt, folded her hands, and closed her eyes. Mike stood back, shifting his weight. He felt awkward watching her—an old woman praying in a junk lot.
It felt sad and out of place. Three minutes passed in total silence. Then Eleanor crossed herself, stood up, and brushed the dirt from her skirt. “There,” she breathed with a sigh of relief. “My job is done. The rest is up to you, Mike.” Mike blinked. “Up to me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ma’am, I’m just the guy who helped you carry it. I’m not involved.”
“You helped,” she agreed, looking at him with that same piercing gaze. “But that’s only the beginning.” Mike scoffed; it was hard to take her seriously. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find a way to be polite without encouraging her. “Look,” he said. “If this thing is actually an antique, you should probably take it to a museum or a gallery in the city. It’ll just rot out here in the rain.”
Eleanor smiled. She wasn’t offended or angry; she just looked at him as if he’d said something sweet and naive. “It won’t rot,” she said softly. “And that’s not your concern.” She stepped closer, so close Mike could smell peppermint and old fabric. She looked him dead in the eye, and Mike found he couldn’t look away. “Mike,” Eleanor said slowly. “I can see your heart.”
“You’re going to do great things here. You don’t even know how much you’re capable of.” Mike wanted to make a joke, to brush it off, but the words caught in his throat. Eleanor held his gaze for five more seconds, then nodded as if she’d received an answer to a question he hadn’t heard. She turned and started walking toward the street. “Wait, Eleanor!” Mike called out, taking a step after her. “Where are you going? Can I give you a ride?”
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