Flash Fiction - “Under the Watch of a Better Father”

-

London carries history in its bones.

Stone remembers here. Walls have watched generations pass beneath them—men in haste, women in waiting, children learning early how to read a room. The city does not forget easily, but it does not accuse either. It stands. It observes.

Evening settles over the Thames, the sky layered in gray and gold. Streetlights flicker on one by one, orderly and patient. She walks along the embankment, coat drawn close, the river moving beside her with a steadiness that feels almost deliberate.

The water does not rush.
It knows where it is going.

She has learned to notice such things.

London is full of fathers—statues of them, portraits of them, names carved into stone. Kings. Leaders. Thinkers. Men who shaped nations and left impressions deep enough to last centuries.

Yet she walks knowing that presence is not the same as covering.

A lack can be loud without making a sound.

She pauses near a bridge, watching the lights ripple across the Thames. Reflections stretch and break, reforming with every small movement of the water. She thinks of how many lives have learned to mirror what was missing—how the absence of protection can teach the body to look elsewhere for safety, affirmation, or belonging.

Not always by choice.
Not always consciously.

Sometimes a door opens simply because nothing stood guard.

She remembers Scripture, not as indictment, but as explanation:

“I will be a Father to you, and you shall be My sons and daughters, says the Lord Almighty.” — 2 Corinthians 6:18

The words land with weight. I will be.
Not I should have been.
Not someone else was.

The river moves on.

She walks again, passing couples, commuters, tourists pausing to take photographs of landmarks older than their questions. London does not hurry anyone into intimacy. It is a city of distance, of polite space, of unspoken boundaries.

And yet—beneath that restraint—there are stories of hunger. Of people learning affection without instruction. Of desire forming where guidance never arrived.

She knows this not from spectacle, but from pattern.

Where there is no fatherly love that protects, something else will often attempt to replace it. Not because the soul is corrupt, but because it is searching.

Searching to be seen.
Searching to be chosen.
Searching to be kept.

She stops at a small park near the water. Iron gates stand open, no guard posted, no one monitoring entry. Inside, benches wait beneath bare trees. The openness feels symbolic without trying to be.

She sits.

For a moment, she allows herself to acknowledge the truth plainly:
That bondage does not always begin with rebellion.
Sometimes it begins with absence.

A missing voice that should have said, You are safe.
A missing presence that should have said, You are not for use.
A missing strength that should have said, I will stand between you and harm.

Scripture does not ignore this reality.

“When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.” — Psalm 27:10

She exhales slowly.

The verse does not accuse earthly parents. It simply names what God does when human love fractures. He steps forward. He covers. He claims.

She looks around the park. A man jogs past, focused, distant. A woman scrolls on her phone, waiting. A child swings quietly, watched by someone attentive.

Covering matters.

Without it, the soul learns to negotiate safety instead of resting in it. Desire becomes transactional. Worth becomes conditional. The body becomes a question mark rather than a home.

She does not linger on the details. They do not serve the truth.

What matters is this:
God sees the pattern—and He interrupts it.

The lights along the path glow brighter now. Night is arriving, orderly and expected. London shifts gears without panic. Shops close. Offices empty. The city knows how to end a day.

She stands and resumes walking, heading toward a bridge whose arches frame the river below. From here, the water looks darker, heavier, yet still controlled. It stays within its banks. It does not spill simply because it is full.

She thinks of restraint—not as repression, but as containment shaped by care.

Another verse rises, steady and corrective:

“For you did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption, by whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father.’” — Romans 8:15

Adoption.
Not tolerance.
Not probation.
Not distance.

Fatherhood, as God defines it, does not exploit need. It answers it.

She rests her hands on the bridge railing. The metal is cold, grounding. She lets herself be still, not scanning, not guarding, not anticipating demand.

There was a time when stillness felt dangerous—when being unoccupied meant being unprotected. But now, stillness feels supervised. Held.

Watched over.

She whispers a prayer—not of correction, but of agreement.

Below her, the Thames continues faithfully, carrying the weight of centuries without losing its course. Bridges remain standing because they were built with intention. Boundaries hold because someone planned for pressure.

God plans for pressure too.

“As a father shows compassion to his children, so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear Him.” — Psalm 103:13

She lets the verse finish its work.

Bondage loses its authority when the soul learns it is no longer orphaned. Desire no longer needs to perform when love is assured. The body no longer negotiates worth when protection has a name.

She turns back toward the street, footsteps steady, unhurried. London hums quietly around her—guarded, structured, enduring.

Under the watch of a better Father, she walks free.

And the night receives her without demand.


⧪


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)

Popular posts from this blog

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:...
Read more

Flash Fiction - “Where the Water Holds”

-
Late afternoon settles gently over the canals. The light is neither bright nor dim, but softened—filtered through cloud and reflection, as if the sky itself has learned restraint. The water holds everything without comment: bridges, buildings, passing clouds, the slow drift of leaves. Nothing here rushes. Nothing demands to be seen. She walks alongside the canal at an unhurried pace, coat buttoned, hands relaxed at her sides. The city moves around her with quiet competence—bicycles passing in steady lines, footsteps measured, conversations kept low. The Netherlands has a way of honoring proximity without intrusion. People share space without claiming it. She breathes in, then out. There was a time when her body did not trust afternoons. When light felt exposing rather than kind. But today, the light does not ask her to explain herself. It simply rests on the surface of things and moves on. She stops at a bridge and leans lightly against the railing. Below, the canal carries small rippl...
Read more