"When Their Eyes Found God" by Sasha Ravae

She wasn’t looking for love. She was looking for stillness.

When Magnolia Reed returns home to the South, it’s not to chase healing. It’s to rest. To be left alone. To sit with her silence and see if it still fits. But home has a memory, and the house her mother left behind still knows her name. So does the land. And so, quietly, does August True.

He doesn’t chase her. Doesn’t pursue. He just…shows up. With hands that build things and a presence that says: “You don’t owe me anything.”

Told in a series of poetic, slow-burning vignettes, When Their Eyes Found God is a sacred witnessing of what love looks like when it’s rooted and reverent. There are no grand gestures. No dramatic declarations. Just porchlight gospel, fig tree altars, and the stillness of two people choosing presence over performance.

This is not a romance. It’s a return...and it’s holy.

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Prologue

They used to say we were watching God.

Waiting on Him to answer.

Waiting on Him to fix it.

To send “the one.”

To make the ache make sense.

But I’ve come to learn—it wasn’t Him we were waiting on.

It was each other.

The moment our eyes met, something ancient remembered itself.

I didn’t see a man.

I saw a mirror. A messenger.

A softness wrapped in spirit and salt.

He saw the goddess in me—not because I performed her,

but because I finally stopped hiding her.

This is not the story of a love that broke me to build me.

It’s the story of a love that found me whole.

Of a porch that stayed quiet.

Of a gaze that didn’t look through me—but into me.

We were not watching God from a distance.

We were watching God from within each other.

And baby, when their eyes found God?

They never looked away again.

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Chapter One

The train didn’t so much arrive as it exhaled—a long, wheezing sigh like it was tired of running and finally allowed itself to rest. Its whistle had softened into something mournful, like a hymn hummed low. The conductor barely tipped his hat as he called out the name of the town, like he wasn’t sure it deserved to be remembered, or maybe he was afraid to say it too loud and wake something old. It was the kind of town where even the train paused a little longer, like it needed to gather itself before moving on.

Maggie stepped down slow, careful not to catch the hem of her faded but clean dress on the rusted edge of the platform. She carried no suitcase—just a sun-softened satchel slung over her shoulder, a small linen-wrapped bundle pressed to her side, and a pocketful of whispered prayers her mama once taught her to murmur between breaths when the weight of the world sat too heavy on a woman’s chest. A folded letter rested in the bottom of her bag, unopened, written in her own hand months ago. A note to herself. A promise.

Dear, Magnolia,

If you're reading this, it means that you finally stopped running from the part of yourself that never needed fixing. It means you remembered.

Not just where you came from, but who you are when you stop shrinking for people who never bothered to see the full shape of you. It means the ache got too loud…or too quiet. Either way—it moved you. And praise be that it did.

You’ve been gone a long time, baby—not just from home, but from yourself. I know that road you walked to get here—it was made of loss, of doubt, of long nights where even your own voice felt like a stranger. But even then, I could feel you pressing forward, one bare step at a time. Wearing grief like a second skin, but never letting it name you.

I know you’re tired. You’ve been surviving on silence, swallowing your softness like it was a weakness. But, baaaaaabbbbby, that softness? That’s the power. That’s the holy part. The world tried to convince you that being tender was dangerous. But you and I both know—your tenderness is the altar where truth lives.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation for why you left. Or why you stayed gone so long. Or why you’re walking back now with a spine made of stillness and a name that blooms fully in your mouth again. Let the town talk. Let the porch watchers squint. They’ll see soon enough that you are not the same.

Go back slow.

Touch the porch rail like it’s an old friend.

Breathe into the rooms like you never stopped living in them.

Let the soil remember you. Let jasmine root itself in your breath. Let the house inhale the sound of your return. Let the wind kiss your neck and call it welcome.

And if you see him—the man who might see you too—don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Just stand in your fullness and let your eyes speak first. If he’s real, if he’s steady, he’ll hear the song your silence sings. And he won’t rush it. He’ll listen. He’ll stay.

Because you were never meant to live unloved.

You were never meant to dim.

You were never meant to carry all of this alone.

You are not hard to love, Magnolia. You are not too much. You are not too quiet, too strong, too deep. You are exact. You are divine. You are what a garden prays to grow into. You are what your mother dreamed when she lit candles no one saw.

You are Magnolia.

The full bloom. The full breath. The full truth. And you are finally coming home.

Love always,

You

*****

The town hadn’t changed much, not in the ways that counted. It was still stitched together with dirt roads and red clay, porch swings and peeling paint, the ghost of laughter, and the low hum of gossip rolling thicker than molasses in the throat. A place where time didn’t move forward—it just looped back around. The windows all squinted at her like they remembered…or maybe they were just bracing for what her presence might stir.

She walked past the general store where the men still leaned back in creaky chairs like they had nothing but time and no intention of spending it on anything but talk. One of them squinted behind cracked spectacles, tilted his head like he was trying to match her face to a name pulled from the dust of memory. They never expected folks to come back, not really.

"That you, Maggie Reed?"

She didn’t answer right away. Let them wonder. Let them stretch their necks trying to see what kind of woman she’d become. Let them feel the weight of who she was now without giving them the shortcut of words.

A few steps later, without looking back, she said, "Still is."

Her voice had changed. It wasn’t sharp or hard, but it had grown rounder somehow. Fuller. Like it had been seasoned by solitude, baptized in still water, and warmed by late-night lamplight and unshed tears. A woman who knew what silence could teach. A woman who had stopped asking permission to exist.

Magnolia Reed hadn’t been called by her given name in nearly fifteen-years. Even as a girl, she’d resented how “Maggie” just tumbled off people’s tongues like a shortcut. Like they couldn’t be bothered to hold the whole of her. Magnolia was a name you had to pause to say. A name that bloomed. A name that carried weight. Only a rare soul could carry it in their mouth and not make it feel heavy.

Only one person had ever called her “Magnolia” and meant it. Spoke it like prayer. Like poetry. He was gone now. Buried in a shallow grave of could’ve-beens and never-wases. She’d mourned him twice—once when he left, and again when she finally let go of the idea that he’d ever come back. And still, his voice sometimes rose from the wind when the night was deep and her chest wide open.

The air smelled the same as it always had—like warm peaches rotting just past sweet, dry earth after a storm, and something faintly burning in the distance. Memory, she thought. That’s what it was. The scent of memory. This whole place was stitched together with it.

She passed the Baptist church with its leaning steeple and weather-worn doors. The old mill pond with its still, mirrored surface. The broken fence where she once kissed a boy she never loved just to feel something. The past greeted her like a neighbor—unsure whether to wave or just keep walking.

Her boots crunched against gravel as she turned the corner. Then, she saw it.

The house…or what was left of it.

The porch sagged like a tired back, weary from holding up too many generations of secrets and silence. The paint had blistered in the sun and peeled like old wallpaper in a forgotten room. Windowpanes winked at her, cracked and smudged with years of neglect. But the land? The land had not given up. It just waited.

Wild jasmine spilled down the front steps like it was trying to retake the space. Morning glories crept up the banisters, bold and soft all at once. Ivy curled around the rail like it had stories to tell. And the magnolia tree—God, the magnolia tree—had grown wider, prouder, blossoms big as open hands, cupping the air like it was blessing her return.

She stopped at the edge of the yard. Didn’t move for a long moment. Just stood there, letting her breath remember its place in her body. The hem of her dress brushed her ankles. The wind shifted, warm and low, like it was whispering something only she could hear. Something ancient. Something that sounded like welcome.

"Alright then," she whispered, not to herself but to the house, to the soil, to the spirit of her mama still lingering in the porch boards. "Let’s begin again."

And the house, in its broken beauty, seemed to sigh back—not in protest, but in praise.

The key stuck in the lock like it hadn’t been turned in years. Maggie jiggled it once, twice—then twisted with a firm, familiar grip. The door groaned open, a slow, aching sound that reminded her of joints long out of use. She didn’t flinch. Just stepped over the threshold and into the dust-sweet hush of memory.

The air inside was thick with quiet. That kind of quiet. The kind that knows things. The kind that carries your name in the floorboards and folds your breath into the curtains. Sunlight streamed through broken blinds, striping the room with gold and shadow. Everything was still, but not dead. Just waiting. Like breath held in the lungs before release.

A layer of time rested on every surface—on the kitchen table where her mother once shelled peas, on the counter where they lined up jars of homemade salve. The cabinets still creaked, and the scent of lavender oil clung stubbornly to the old linen cloth hanging by the stove. In the corner sat a chipped jar full of buttons, each one with a story her mama never got to finish telling.

She didn’t rush.

Magnolia moved through the house like a woman visiting a church that had long ago stopped holding services—but still kept its spirit. Her fingers brushed the mantle. The chipped edge of the porcelain sink. The faded wallpaper in the hallway. She touched everything without needing to change it. Just acknowledging: I remember. I’m here.

The bedroom was nearly bare. Her mama’s bedframe. An empty trunk. One chair in the corner that still leaned ever so slightly to the left. A framed photo facedown on the windowsill—sun-faded but not forgotten. She turned it over. Her mother, younger than Magnolia was now, eyes like hers but mouth tighter, like she held too many words behind her teeth.

No tears came. She’d done all that long ago. This wasn’t grief. It was something else. Something quieter than mourning. A homecoming without fanfare.

Outside, the garden was waiting…or maybe it had never stopped.

She stepped off the porch and into the back, where the path was overgrown but still there, buried under grass and clover. The earth felt different under her feet—warmer somehow. Like it knew her soles. Like it had missed her weight. She walked it barefoot now, her boots left by the porch steps, soles pressed against remembrance.

The garden hadn’t been tended to in years, but it hadn’t given up yet. Herbs she didn’t plant had sprung wild—chamomile, sage, lemon balm. The rosemary bush had grown arrogant and wide, and a single white rose bloomed defiantly near the fence line. There were tomato vines still clinging to their stakes, and a fig tree that bowed with silent generosity. Magnolia knelt down and touched the dirt, letting it press into the creases of her palm.

“You waited on me,” she whispered. Not in surprise. In recognition.

She closed her eyes, hands buried in the soil. Not praying exactly—but something close to it. A remembering. A reverence. The wind carried the scent of honeysuckle and old pine. The cicadas started up again, low and steady. Somewhere in the distance, a screen door slapped shut.

She stood slowly—dirt on her skirt, memory on her skin. The air felt different now, heavier with presence. A bird called from the branches overhead. Her fingers lingered at the base of her throat as if something unseen had just passed through her.

And then, she caught a glimpse of movement through the trees.

A man. Tall. Slow-walking. Carrying a bundle of wood over one shoulder.

He didn’t look her way. Didn’t call out. But something in her blood stirred.

Not from fear. But from familiarity.

She didn’t follow with her feet. Just her eyes.

And when he disappeared down the path, Magnolia looked back to the garden.

Smiled.

“Alright then,” she murmured. “Guess I ain’t the only thing coming back to life.”

*****

The next time she saw him, he wasn’t just a shape moving through trees.

He was walking down the dirt road beside the garden fence, sleeves rolled, sun on his forearms—skin the color of wet earth, smooth and strong. Carrying a bucket of tools in one hand and something unspoken hanging in the space beside him. Magnolia was knelt in the soil again, palms deep in rosemary, coaxing the roots like they’d speak to her. But her body felt him before her eyes had him in view.

She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t need to. The quiet around her changed. The cicadas paused like they were listening. The breeze curled different. A leaf shifted without falling.

When she did glance up, he was already slowing.

“Morning, ma’am.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t stretch to fill the space. It didn’t bend itself into charm. It just landed, deep and even, like it was meant to be there.

She stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt without hurry, as if she had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing toward or away from anything.

“You fixin’ something?”

He looked down at the tools. Then back at her. His gaze didn’t linger inappropriately—it rested.

“Trying to. Old chapel roof. Needs a little care.”

His words were plain, but the way he said “care” made her pause. Like he didn’t just mean hammer and nails. Like he knew things could be sacred even when broken.

She nodded once, a slow bow of the chin, then turned her head, half expecting him to keep walking, but he stayed.

The silence between them stretched—not tense, not awkward. Just wide. Like the kind of silence that makes room for things to grow.

And then, he said it.

“Magnolia, right?”

Not Maggie.

Not Miss Reed.

Magnolia.

The name unfurled from his mouth like he’d practiced it in his head a few times before letting it out. Like it mattered to him that he got it right.

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes slow and steady, one hand still gripping the rosemary. Like she was weighing whether he’d earned the right to say it.

But something about the way he stood there—shoulders relaxed, bucket at his side, not performing softness but being it—something about that made her chest loosen.

“That’s right,” she said. “It’s Magnolia.”

Not a whisper. Not a shout. Just truth. Stated plain, like scripture.

“Nice to meet ya’. I’m August.” He tipped his head, and for the briefest moment, she swore she saw the corner of his mouth threaten a smile. Not the kind men gave when they wanted something—but the kind that came when something was recognized.

Then, he turned and kept walking, slow as ever. His boots left gentle prints in the road, like the world had already been bruised enough.

She watched him go until the breeze picked up again and the garden stirred back to life. But the air behind him stayed warm.

And her name still lingered in the space he left behind.

She whispered it to herself once more, as if to remind the sky, the soil, and maybe even the woman she used to be: “It’s Magnolia.”

And this time, it didn’t sound like a memory. It sounded like beginning.

*****

August didn’t knock.

Didn’t holler from the gate or send word ahead. Just showed up with a toolbox, a quiet nod, and that look like he wasn’t there to prove anything. Just to tend to what needed tending.

Magnolia heard him before she saw him—boots brushing against the porch steps, the hollow thud of something being set down gently, like it mattered. By the time she stepped outside, he was already crouched near the front rail, examining the splintered wood like it was a broken bone on someone he loved.

The morning was humid, full of cicada song and the smell of pine warmed by the sun. She had just made a pot of chicory coffee, but hadn’t yet poured a cup. Her robe was cotton-thin, faded blue, and hung off one shoulder. She didn’t pull it tighter. Just leaned into the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

“That been cracked long?” he asked, eyes still on the damage.

She looked down at the splintered wood, then back at him. “Long enough that I stopped noticing.”

He hummed. That same low sound from before. Not judgment. Just recognition. Maybe even understanding.

Then, he got to work.

No permission asked. He just pulled a small prybar from out his belt and started removing the old, rusted nails with hands that moved like he had done this a hundred times. But he still gave each piece its own attention. Focused. Present. His movements were slow, methodical, like the work was sacred, like the rail needed someone to see it all the way through.

Magnolia didn’t offer to help.

Instead, she sat on the porch swing, barefoot and still, letting the creak of the chains and the rhythm of his work fill the space between them. The kind of silence that builds trust. The kind that repairs more than just wood. She tucked one leg underneath the other and leaned back, letting the sun warm her thighs, her collarbone, her cheeks.

She watched the way his shoulders moved. The way he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then reached for a plank already cut to fit. She didn’t ask how he knew the dimensions. She figured some men measured with more than just tape. With memory. With intuition. With quiet reverence.

“You always fix what’s not yours?” she asked, voice level. Not accusing—just open.

He paused. Not from offense, just to think. He placed a new nail, hammered twice, then looked at her over his shoulder.

“Not always. Just when it feels like it’s waiting on me.”

Her heart stuttered, just a bit.

Not a thump. A flutter. Like a bird startled into stillness.

He kept working. Replaced the rail. Sanded the edge smooth. Wiped it down with a cloth dipped in oil. The wood drank it in. When he finished, he stood slowly, wiped his hands again, and looked out toward the garden like he didn’t expect a “thank you.” But she gave it anyway.

“That rail been broken since my mama passed.”

He nodded once. Like that meant something. Like he would remember.

She thought maybe he’d sit. Maybe say something else. But he didn’t.

Instead, he just stepped off the porch. Didn’t linger. Didn’t ask to stay. Just tipped his head and walked back the same way he came. The sound of his boots against the gravel path was steady, but not loud. Like he moved through the world careful not to wake things still healing.

The porch suddenly felt different. The house stood straighter. The swing rocked on its own, just a little. And something in her chest felt…less jagged.

Not healed.

Not whole.

But beginning to be.

She leaned forward, ran her fingers along the new wood—smooth, golden, warm from the sun. The scent of cedar lingered on her fingertips. She sat back, closed her eyes, and let the stillness wash over her.

It wasn’t about the rail. It was about being witnessed…and tended to—without needing to ask.

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Chapter 1 cracked open the silence—and now the fig leaves are shaking.

The porch is humming. The air’s thick with breath you forgot you were holding. And that man? He ain't say much, but whew.

🪵 Chapters 2–5 are live now in the Slow Burn Bundle. Or tap into the Flame Book Bundle to stay locked in every time a new Field Fiction exclusive drops.

No noise. No rush. Just eyes meeting—and something sacred starting to bloom.