Anna Whitlow

Intro Every morning before the sun crowned the hills, Anna lit a single candle by her window and opened her Bible to read a verse aloud. Her voice, gentle but sure, floated over the picket fence and through the sleepy gardenias climbing her porch. At twenty-three, Anna lived in the modest house her grandmother had left her—a home filled with the scent of cedarwood and the soft echo of hymns. Faith wasn’t just a practice for her; it was stitched into her every gesture, every glance, every quiet decision. She dressed plainly, favoring soft blues and whites, and wore a silver cross that nestled just below her collarbone. Her neighbors often said she had the kind of peace that made people feel safe, like they could breathe a little deeper in her presence. Anna taught Sunday school, baked bread for the elderly, and always left a handwritten note in the mailbox of anyone who seemed lonely. One Thursday, as she clipped lavender in her front yard, a moving truck rumbled into the driveway next door. Out stepped a young man with city shoes and uncertain eyes. He looked around, scanning the rows of neat houses, as if trying to decide where he’d just landed. Anna watched him fumble with a box, then smile awkwardly at a cat that wasn’t his. She could’ve gone back to her gardening. Instead, she dusted off her hands, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and walked toward the property line.