She sat there in the church, her eyes closed, as the ocean breeze made a gentle rustling sound across Mahébourg, a quiet village nestled in between the rocks. It brushed against the cheeks of Marie-Claire Morel as she sat, with her fingers clutching a weathered rosary. She muttered to herself as she touched each bead reverently, every "Hail Mary" she chanted, a lifeline.
For ten years, she had held on, through grief, through silence, through the sting of every question unanswered.
Her son, Luc, had vanished at fifteen. He had gone out to buy some provisions from the "magazin" (shop) by the corner, and never returned. One slipper was found by the harbor, on the rocks, it was stained with blood, no body, no answers, just silence in the vast emptiness.
Her husband, Yoan, had died of a heart attack months later, shattered completely by his grief.
Marie-Claire had only the Holy Rosary to hold onto.
“Pray, and God will return him to you,” the old parish priest had once told her but years had passed, and the sea never returned her "Luc".
Still, she prayed, every dawn and every dusk. Rain or shine. Ten years. Every day, she was in the big church, praying the heavens intervened, and brought her succour.
He was young, gentle, with a voice that could stir the dead to life and he hit it off instantly with the local congregation. This new priest was sent to the village church that year, he carried that stillness that softened even a heart of stone and was the favorite of mothers who brought their erring children to be advised and prayed upon.
He was Reverend Father Xavier.
His gaze lingered, as if trying to remember what he had never known and the congregation said he seemed to look from the lofty height of angels. They said he was indeed an angel.
One rainy evening, it was All Souls’ Day, Marie-Claire went to confession. Kneeling behind the screen, her hands trembled as she held her rosary close.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”
The rain hit the roof in soft patters.
“I can't forgive myself… maybe I lost them because of my sins. My Luc, my husband… I wasn’t perfect. Maybe God took them to punish me.” Her voice broke, raw and quivering.
Silence. Then, the priest spoke.
“No madame… God does not punish like that. His mercies are deeper than the seas and higher than the heavens. You have prayed faithfully all these years. Let it be done to you, according to your faith.”
Marie-Claire wept. Something in his voice—calmed her so much, like a lullaby would, a new-born babe.
As the days passed, the priest often visited Marie-Claire’s home, encouraging her, propping up her faith. He felt drawn to her. At first it was the sorrow in her eyes, then later, she reminded him of vanilla and of something warm.
He once saw her by the window, whispering a prayer with her rosary wrapped around her hand, like a lifeline.
He walked slowly to her side.
“What do you pray for?” he asked gently.
Her smile was soft but sad. “That the sea returns what it took.”
One quiet Sunday after Mass, Marie-Claire invited the priest to her place, for tea, and as he sat, his eyes wandered to an old photograph tucked behind a dusty glass frame. It was a boy standing beside Marie-Claire, bright-eyed, and a dimpled smile. He held on to a Palm Cross.
His heart stopped.
“Who… is the boy?” he asked.
Marie-Claire looked up slowly. “My son. Luc. The one that disappeared ten years ago.”
The room reeled. Breath caught in his chest, his ears rang.
He had no memories before the convent found him. Only flashes—waves, pain, a woman desperately calling a name—
"Luc....Luc.....Luc... Before her voice faded.
He couldn’t speak. The mug fell from his hand and shattered on the floor.
"Mama...."
Then tears, rushing, with unspoken grief—burst from him as he collapsed at her feet.
Marie-Claire gasped. Her fingers flew to her lips, trembling.
She touched his face—those eyes… that scar above his brow… he had it at five when he banged his head against a wall, sleepwalking.
“Luc?” she choked.
He looked up, tears flooding his eyes. “Mama?”
A long silence.
Her wail broke something sacred in the air. She fell to her knees and held him tightly, as if afraid he’d vanish again. Decades of sorrow poured out in one holy moment. Her rosary slipped from her fingers and landed between them.
Luc picked it up, recognizing it—the old wooden beads he’d always seen her pray with.
“Where did you go?” she whispered, her eyes now locked on his face. Her heart beating rapidly.
"Where did you go?" She asked again as she cupped his face and sobbed, “My son… My son! Oh, merci Jésus! They said you were gone!”
“I don’t remember what happened,” he sobbed, clutching her skirt like a child. “I don’t know but the nuns who found me said I was battered and thrown into the sea, to drown.....I couldn't remember anything afterwards.… but something in me always longed for home.”
“I was lost Mama… but I was found,” he spoke in between sobs as mother and son held on tightly to each other. “The sea didn’t take me. It gave me back… through the prayers of a mother who never stopped believing.”
That evening, under a golden sky, they sat outside, her hand in his, rosary between them, the breeze humming softly .
Marie-Claire turned to him, tears of joy still clung to her eyes.
“Where did you go?” She asked again.
He looked at her, eyes filled with wonder. He saw flickers of old pages of a life paused, now re-opening.
“Not too far for God to bring me home.”
Marie-Claire looked at the Holy Rosary again.
It had delivered fully on its promise....
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