Pastor John's POV
Pastor John Emmanuel stirred in his silk sheets, drenched in sweat. Again, the woman. Always the same woman — not in lace or glitter, but in tears.
"Help me," she whispered. "Please."
She stood on a dim street corner, the night swallowing her whole. Her heels clicked against wet pavement. Her eyes weren't seductive — they were scared. And for reasons he couldn't explain, it shattered him.
When he awoke, the name was on his lips:
"Ruby."
He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to shake off the vision. For the fifth time that month, this stranger had invaded his dreams. Always pleading. Always crying. Always barefoot at the end.
He reached for his Bible on the nightstand and flipped it open to nowhere in particular. His eyes landed on Isaiah 61.
> "To bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives..."
He closed the Bible with a soft sigh.
"Lord," he whispered, "is this You talking, or just a trick of my past?"
⛪️ Later that Morning...
Sunlight filtered through the grand stained glass windows of Living Waters Church. The worship team was mid-rehearsal, their harmonies filling the sanctuary.
Pastor John stood at the back, arms folded, heart distracted.
Esther — the choir lead — caught his gaze and flashed her signature polished smile. She had the voice of an angel and the persistence of a politician. Everyone assumed she'd be the future First Lady of Living Waters.
But John's heart didn't beat faster around her. Not like it did in the dream.
"Pastor?" she called out, walking toward him. Her body moved with confidence, heels echoing against the tiles. "You look... tense. Bad night?"
He offered a polite nod. "Just a dream."
Her eyes sparkled. "Anything I can pray about?"
Before he could answer, the sanctuary doors creaked open. A woman stepped in — hesitant, holding a little girl's hand in one arm and a boy's in the other. Her coat was faded, her shoes mismatched, but her presence… electric.
John's breath caught.
It was her.
Not dressed like in the dream. She looked even more real — more fragile. And yet more dangerous. Because something in his spirit knew her. Knew her pain. Knew her story before she said a word.
The little girl tugged her coat. "Mama Ruby, are we late?"
Esther frowned. "Do you know her?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
John didn't answer. He was already stepping forward, his heart pounding.