Tender Mercies
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9
That night, she prayed differently.
Kneeling beside her bed as always, but the words that came were not pleas for safety or mercy. They were gratitude.
Merci, mon Dieu, pour Tes tendres compassions, qui se renouvellent chaque matin.
Thank you, my God, for Your tender mercies, which are new every morning.
She had recited those words a thousand times since Henri’s death. But tonight, for the first time, she truly felt them.
The snow that had covered their tracks in December. The fever breaking. The soldiers finding a different fugitive instead of Scotty. Every impossibility that had somehow become possible.
And Scotty himself. This man who had fallen from the sky into her barn, who made her laugh again, who looked at her like she hung the moon, who promised to stay.
I don’t know what You’re doing, she prayed silently. But thank You. Whatever comes next, thank You for this.
She climbed into bed and slept better than she had in months.
Everything changed and nothing changed.
The routine continued—three visits a day, morning, midday, evening. The Germans still patrolled. The war still raged beyond the fortress walls. The danger remained constant.
But now when she descended the ladder with breakfast, he greeted her with a kiss.
Now when she sat mending in the lamplight, he would reach over and take her hand, just to hold it.
Now when she had to leave, she would pause at the ladder and look back, and he would smile at her in a way that made her chest ache.
“What?” she asked one evening, catching that look.
“Nothing. Just ... memorizing you.”
“I am not going anywhere.”
“I know. But I spent three months looking at you and not letting myself really see you. I’m making up for lost time.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “You are ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
And God help her, she did.
The first Sunday after the confession, she went to Mass at the convent.
Sister Marguerite found her afterward in the garden.
“You look different, child,” the old nun said, studying her face. “Lighter, somehow.”
Clarice felt the blush rise. “I am ... managing.”
“Managing.” Sister Marguerite’s eyes were too knowing. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Sister—”
“Peace, child. I’m not asking questions I don’t want answered.” The nun glanced around, ensuring they were alone. “I will simply say this: joy is not a sin. Even in the midst of suffering. Especially then.”
Clarice’s throat tightened. “Henri—”
“Henri would want you to live. To love. To be happy.” Sister Marguerite’s voice was gentle but firm. “You honor his memory by surviving, by choosing hope. Not by burying yourself in grief.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“Too soon for what? To feel alive again?” The nun shook her head. “There is no schedule for the heart, Clarice. God brings us what we need when we need it. The rest is just fear talking.”
“And if I am afraid?”
“Then you are human.” Sister Marguerite squeezed her hand. “But don’t let fear steal what grace has given you.”
March crawled toward April. The days grew longer, though not yet warm.
Scotty’s shoulder had healed crooked—not badly, but enough that he couldn’t raise his arm quite as high as before.
“Think I’m done with flying,” he said one evening, rotating it experimentally. “Even if I wanted to go back, the Air Corps wouldn’t pass me fit for duty.”
“Does that bother you?”
He considered. “No. Not really. I’ve seen enough sky for one lifetime.” He looked at her. “I’d rather keep my feet on the ground. With you.”
“What will you tell your family? When you can write to them?”
“The truth. That I crashed, that I survived, that I’m staying in France.” He smiled. “That I met someone.”
Her heart did that complicated flutter. “They will think you are crazy.”
“Probably. But my mom will want to meet you. She’ll insist on it, once travel is possible again.”
The thought terrified and thrilled her in equal measure. “I do not speak English well.”
“You speak it better than I speak French. And besides—” He reached for her hand. “She’ll love you. How could she not?”
One evening in mid-April, she brought him a piece of paper and a pencil.
“What’s this?”
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