Flash Fiction - “Beneath the Crossing, the Lord Is Near”

Tokyo wakes before it speaks.

Light reaches the city first—thin and pale, sliding between buildings like a courtesy rather than a claim. The streets below wait in disciplined quiet. Vending machines hum. Trains inhale and release. Somewhere above the city, clouds loosen their grip on the night.

She stands near Shibuya Crossing, not yet among it, watching from the margin. There is comfort in the pause before movement, in the moment when everything is held back. The crowd gathers in clusters, faces turned toward signals that decide when the world may proceed.

She has learned to love margins.

In Tokyo, no one looks at her long enough to decide who she is. This is a kindness. The city is practiced at holding multitudes without asking them to explain themselves. She feels less visible here, and more real.

The pedestrian light blinks red. She waits.

Her reflection stares back from the glass of a nearby storefront—neither accusation nor invitation, just presence. She notes how she stands now: shoulders level, breath steady, feet grounded. This posture is new. It was not always safe to take up space so plainly.

She does not revisit the past. She does not need to. God knows it already.

“O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, Thou understandest my thought afar off.” — Psalm 139:1–2

When the light turns green, the crossing releases its people all at once, streams of motion weaving through one another with an elegance that feels rehearsed. She steps forward with them, carried and carrying, alone and not alone. For a few seconds, the world allows everyone to move at once without collision.

She thinks of Scripture—how the narrow way is often described as lonely—but here, narrowness produces harmony. Boundaries create safety. Order makes room.

“Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” — Matthew 7:14

She smiles at the thought, surprised by it.

Tokyo has taught her that restraint is not emptiness. It is attention.

Later, she finds herself in a small café tucked between taller things. The door slides open with a soft chime. Inside, there are only a few seats and a woman behind the counter who bows gently, as if acknowledging something sacred in the exchange of coffee.

She orders simply. No modifiers. No apology.

As she waits, she notices how the room holds silence—not awkward, not strained, but shared. No one rushes to fill it. Cups are placed deliberately. Steam rises and dissipates. Everything here seems to know its place.

She sits by the window and folds her hands on the table. They are steady. She remembers when her hands used to curl inward without permission, bracing for something unnamed. That reflex has softened with time and prayer. Healing, she has learned, does not announce itself. It arrives quietly and asks to stay.

“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3

She thanks God—not aloud, but fully.

Not for the city. Not for the coffee. But for the way her body now believes she is safe enough to notice them.

Outside, people pass with purpose. School uniforms. Office wear. Fashion that looks like art and armor at once. She watches without envy, without comparison. She is not here to become someone else. She is here to be returned to herself.

The Bible rests in her bag, worn and familiar. She does not open it yet. She knows what it says in this moment:

“The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

“He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.” — Psalm 23:3

“Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding.” — Proverbs 4:7

She finishes her coffee slowly.

Later still, she walks through a neighborhood where shrines appear without warning—small sanctuaries nestled between modern walls. She pauses, not to enter, but to acknowledge the human longing that built them. Everywhere she goes, people are reaching. Some reach upward. Some inward. Some toward the approval of strangers.

She reaches toward God, and finds Him already present.

“If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.” — Psalm 139:8

There was a time when she thought faith required hardness. A tightening of resolve. A vigilance that bordered on fear. She had mistaken constant guarding for holiness.

But here, in a city that thrives on careful order and unspoken understanding, she realizes something gentler: holiness is not tension. It is alignment.

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

She walks on.

As evening approaches, the city shifts its language. Neon signs awaken. The air fills with color that feels alive rather than loud. Tokyo does not seduce—it illuminates. It offers beauty without demanding consumption.

She stops on a bridge and looks down at the river below. It moves without hurry, reflecting fragments of light that never quite settle. She thinks of her own life—how much of it once felt like fragments, disconnected and unsafe to gather.

God did not rush her then. He does not rush her now.

She leans against the railing and lets the cool metal anchor her. This is what agency feels like, she thinks. The ability to choose stillness. The freedom to remain.

A verse surfaces in her memory, unforced:

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

Not as command, but as invitation.

She accepts it.

Night settles fully. The city continues, faithful to its rhythm. She begins the walk back, feet moving easily, body trusting the ground beneath it. There is no urgency in her pace. Nothing is chasing her. Nothing is being withheld.

In her room later, she kneels by the window instead of the bed. The city stretches endlessly, yet she feels held. She prays without recounting pain. She prays without asking to be fixed.

She simply offers herself again.

“Thank You for staying,” she whispers.

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.” — Psalm 23:1

God does not respond with words. He never needs to. His presence is enough. It has always been enough.

When she finally rests, the city continues outside, crossing lights blinking on schedule, trains arriving as promised. Order persists. Safety is maintained. Life moves forward without violence.

Tomorrow, she will write—not to explain, not to expose, but to witness.

Tonight, she sleeps whole.

⧪

Explore

Still With Her: Flash Fictions (New: Monthly on the 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th, 25th, and 30th)

Bound Gently: Veiled in Crimson - Short Fiction Book (Completed)

Spoken Before Him: Beloved Daughter - Prayer Book (Completed)