Julianna

The train platform was a ghostly expanse, the steel rails stretching into the dark like threads unraveling from the fabric of the world. Snow fell in delicate whispers, its soft hush absorbed by the dense quiet of the empty station. The only sound was the steady rhythm of her boots against the frosted concrete, echoing into nothingness. She pulled her coat tighter, the biting wind slicing through her scarf and grazing her skin. Around her, eight children huddled close, their wide eyes reflecting her tension. They were quiet, too quiet for children their age, but fear had a way of silencing even the most spirited souls.

She wasn’t supposed to be here, not like this. Just a week ago, the station had been a chaotic mass of bodies, desperate parents thrusting their children into her arms, begging her to take them. “Save them,” they’d pleaded, tears streaming down their faces. She’d taken as many as she could, marking each child with a permanent marker—names and phone numbers scrawled onto their skin, a desperate safeguard in case they were separated again.

The backpack, once her lifeline, had been left behind during a rescue mission. She’d leapt from the train as it departed the station to save a boy trapped on the platform, tossing the bag aside in her haste. By the time she’d pulled him to safety, the train and her possessions were gone. The loss had gutted her. Inside were all her papers, photographs of her family, and the few remnants of her life before the bombings. Now, all she had were these children and the clothes on her back.

The train that had brought them this far had stopped five kilometers from the border. “Track’s out,” the conductor had said grimly, ushering them off into the snow. “You’ll have to walk.” So she’d set off into the cold night, leading the children through the darkness with only a dying cell phone to guide her. The wind howled around them, biting through their thin layers, but she pressed on, willing herself not to falter.

“Stay close,” she whispered, glancing back at the small faces trailing behind her. “Hold hands. Don’t let go.” Their breath puffed in the frigid air, and their footsteps crunched softly against the snow. Her phone’s battery icon flashed red, the dim light barely illuminating the GPS map. She had to find the border. The pastor from a small American church had promised to meet them there, to take them somewhere safe.

But the phone died before she could get her bearings. Darkness swallowed them, and for the first time, hopelessness clawed at her resolve. She knelt in the snow, clutching the device, her hands trembling. Around her, the children shivered, their trust in her an unbearable weight. She wanted to scream, to cry, but there was no time for weakness.

She stood, swallowing her despair, and turned to the children. “We keep moving,” she said, her voice firm. “Follow me. One step at a time.”

The wind seemed to carry whispers, voices she couldn’t understand but felt compelled to follow. She trudged forward, one step, then another, her legs aching with every movement. The smallest child stumbled, and she scooped him into her arms without breaking stride. She whispered prayers under her breath, a plea for guidance, for strength, for a miracle.

And then, faintly, she saw it: a glow in the distance, warm and golden against the cold blue of the night. It wasn’t the harsh light of a searchlight or the cold glow of headlights. It was softer, almost inviting. She hesitated, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her, but the glow grew brighter, steady and unwavering.

“Look,” one of the older children whispered, pointing. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice trembling, “but we’re going to find out.”

As they drew closer, the glow resolved into a figure standing in the snow, shrouded in light. It wasn’t a person, not exactly, but something more—a presence that radiated warmth and peace. The children stopped, their fear replaced with wide-eyed wonder. She felt her knees weaken, but the presence seemed to steady her, filling her with a calm she hadn’t felt in months.

“You’re not alone,” the figure said, their voice clear and resonant, carrying over the wind as if it spoke directly to her soul. It wasn’t a question, nor a reassurance. It was a statement, simple and true.

Tears streamed down her face as she nodded, unable to speak. The figure raised a hand, and suddenly, she knew which way to go. The border was close, just beyond the next hill. She could feel it in her bones, as though the path had been etched into her soul.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure whether the words reached the figure. When she looked up again, the light was gone, but the sense of direction remained.

“Come on,” she said, turning to the children. Her voice was steadier now, filled with a confidence she couldn’t explain. “We’re almost there.”

And they were. Hours later, as dawn broke over the horizon, they stumbled across the border checkpoint. The pastor was waiting, his face breaking into a relieved smile as he ran to greet them. She fell to her knees, the weight of the journey finally lifting from her shoulders as the children were ushered into safety.

Faith, she thought. Faith had brought her this far. Hope had lit her path. And perhaps tonight, she’d encountered something greater—a reminder that even in her most vulnerable moments, she was seen and never truly alone.