'Stolen Soul' reads like a memoir disguised as fiction, following your unnamed narrator through a series of seemingly chance encounters with a teenage girl that evolve from casual kindness into profound spiritual connection and ultimate heartbreak.
The genius emerges through your careful documentation of how love develops in unexpected ways: it begins with small acts of compassionâbuying her a burger when she's trying to break into a vending machine, offering help with math home ...
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Picture yourself on a park bench, the spring air soft against your skin, when a little girl, no older than six, bolts toward a busy street. Cars and trucks roar past, oblivious to her tiny frame. Sheâs running full tilt, her laughter trailing like a kite string, unaware of the danger. What do you do? Leap up, heart pounding, to snatch her from the jaws of death, risking your own life? Or do you freeze, watching the tragedy unfold, helpless on the bench? You might think you know your choice, but until the moment arrives, itâs just a guessâand the truth might surprise you.
Life, though, rarely unfolds so dramatically. Itâs quieter, sneakier, weaving its lessons through chance encounters and fleeting moments. This is my storyâa work of fiction, but rooted in a truth that changed me.
It began with a girl, maybe fifteen, spotted from a distance in a crowded park. She was just another face, her dark hair catching the sunlight as she laughed with friends. I didnât think much of it. Weeks later, I saw her again in a diner, her head bent over a milkshake, her worn sneakers tapping the floor. Then, at a bus stop, there she was, hunched against the cold, her backpack frayed at the seams. Coincidence? Maybe. Curious, I walked closer, but she flinched, her eyes narrowing with distrust. Stranger danger, I figured. I backed off, gave her a nod, and moved on, her face fading from my mind.
A month later, I found her wrestling with a vending machine outside a gas station, her thin fingers prying at the slot for a bag of chips. She wasnât payingâjust trying to force it open. âHungry?â I asked, keeping my distance. She froze, then nodded, stepping back like a startled deer. I pointed across the street to a burger joint. âLet me get you something.â Before she could answer, a gruff voice cut in. âSixteenâll get you twenty, pal. Thatâs my daughter youâre hitting on.â A man, maybe in his forties, stood behind her, his tone half-joking, half-wary. I laughed, holding up my hands. âSheâs safe, I promise. Come on, Iâll buy you both lunch.â They followed me, hesitant but hungry. I paid for their burgers, wished them well, and left, thinking that was the end of it.
But it wasnât. A month later, I was at a bus stop, the evening chill settling in, when she appeared. She walked straight up, a shy smile on her face, and handed me a paper bag. âFor you,â she said, then darted off before I could respond. Inside was a burger, still warm. But it was her eyes that stopped me coldâbright, piercing, like they saw right through me. In that fleeting glance, it felt like she reached into my chest and tugged at something deep, something I couldnât name. She ran off, but that moment clung to me. From then on, she was a ghost in my thoughts, impossible to shake.
Over the next year, Iâd see her around townâa flash of her dark hair in a crowd, her laugh echoing in a store. I started helping her with small things: a math problem from her tattered textbook, a pair of sneakers when hers wore through, a soda on a hot day. I grew to love herânot in a way that crossed lines, but in the way you love a rare, fleeting thing, like a wildflower blooming in cracked pavement. She didnât feel the same. To her, I was just a kind old man, an easy mark for a freebie. I didnât care. Her energy, her free spirit, her gentle kindnessâit was almost angelic. I thanked God for letting me cross paths with her, convinced by the string of coincidences that there was a divine hand at work.
But her life wasnât all light. She didnât have a stable home, bouncing between friendsâ couches and sometimes places that made my stomach turnâdingy apartments, sketchy motels. I worried constantly, but I was an outsider, a bystander in her world. I had no real place, no influence. All I could do was tell her I cared, that there was love out there for her, greater than she knew. Sheâd roll her eyes, mutter âWhatever,â and walk away, her backpack slung low.
As she got older, sheâd vanish for months, then reappear like nothing had changed. Sheâd flash that smile, but I could see the cracksâred-rimmed eyes, a nervous energy. Drugs, I suspected, and the men she hung around were too old, too rough. âIf things get bad, I can help,â I told her more than once. Sheâd shrug, insisting she had it under control. I saw the dark path she was on, and I knew I should walk away for my own sake. But I couldnât. I chose to follow, keeping her in sight, ready to step in if things went wrong, even if it meant trouble for me.
Then she disappeared again. Months passed, and I figured she was gone for good. I kept her in my prayers, asking for her safety, hoping sheâd found a better path.
But then her friends started asking if Iâd seen her. No one knew where she was. I asked around, dread growing, until word came: she was in a mental hospital. Sheâd been brutally assaulted, then tried to end her life with drugs. The combination had ravaged her brain, leaving her in a fragile state. The doctors werenât sure if sheâd recover, but they held onto hope.
Loving her had been easy when she was a bright, untamed spirit. Now, the weight of her pain crushed me. That connection, that piece of my soul sheâd taken, tied me to her suffering. I hurt with her, unable to pull away. Iâd thanked God for knowing her, but I wasnât ready for this agony. Anger surgedâat the world, at the forces that let this happen to her. I questioned why her light had been dimmed.
It was all too real.
I donât want to overdramatize, but this is my truth, a weight I carry in endless prayers.
We live in a world that seems hell-bent on breaking its brightest souls, a truth I thought belonged to movies or books. I never expected to face it myself. I was wrong.
When I learned she was lostâwandering the dark corners of a dangerous city, trapped in the shadows of a broken mindâI braced for grief, expecting a process with a start and finish. But thereâs no end in sight. She drifts in and out of a catatonic state, speaking in fragments, crying more than talking, her injuries too deep to explain. Her recovery, if it comes, is agonizingly slow.
My grief is a relentless tide, crashing over me in waves that never stop. My prayers have deepened my faith, but that growth feels like a betrayal, built on her pain. I hate this. I hate the darkness that fuels it, knowing Iâm one of countless others carrying this same burden.
I pray every day that she finds healing, that her spirit can one day shine again in the warmth of God's loveâa gift Iâve always had but never truly valued until now.
and, thank God, sheâs come through. The girl who once seemed lost to the shadows has found her way back, her spirit flickering back to life like a candle reignited after a storm. I visited her in the hospital, a Level 1 facility that is more a prison than a place of healing. Stark white walls, locked doors, and the constant hum of despair hung in the air. I sat across from her, her eyes brighter than Iâd seen in months, though still carrying a weight I couldnât fully grasp. She smiledâa small, tentative thing, but it was enough to make my heart ache with hope.
I spoke with her therapist, a tired woman with a clipboard and too many cases. I asked about continued rehabilitation, somewhere she could rebuild her life with support. The therapist shook her head, her voice flat. âNo facilities will take her. Thereâs nothing available.â I didnât believe itânot entirely. It was the stateâs insurance provider, I suspected, unwilling to spend another dime on a girl theyâd written off as a lost cause. Another child discarded, her worth measured in dollars and deemed too costly. It made my blood boil, but anger wouldnât help her. I turned to her instead, taking her hand. âIf youâre ever in trouble again, if you feel yourself slipping, call me. Come to me. Iâm here.â I knew I didnât have all the answers, no grand solutions to fix her world. All I could offer was loveâthe real kind, not the twisted sort that exploits and discards.
She nodded, her gaze steady but distant, like she was weighing my words against a lifetime of broken promises. I didnât push. I just hoped sheâd heard me.
Little by little, weâve grown closer. Not in the way of daily phone calls or planned visits, but in the quiet, unspoken way trust builds between two people whoâve seen each otherâs scars. When people see us togetherâthe funny-looking old man with the gray hair and the young woman with a spark in her stepâthey ask who we are to each other. She grins and says, âHeâs my grandpa.â I smile back and say, âSheâs my granddaughter, in every way but DNA.â Itâs a truth that runs deeper than blood. Sheâs family now, woven into my life like a thread I never expected to find.
I wish I could see her every day, but thatâs not how her world works. She comes by my place every now and then, usually when she needs somethingâa few bucks, a ride, a safe place to crash. I always tell her, âMi casa es su casa,â and she takes it to heart. Sheâll walk in without knocking, head straight to the kitchen, and rummage through my fridge like itâs her own. I love that about herâthe way she claims my space as hers, like she knows sheâs safe here. Once, I caught her eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon, her feet propped on my coffee table, and I just laughed. âMake yourself at home, kid,â I said, and she flashed that grin that first stole a piece of my soul.
But beneath the laughter, I worry. Sheâs still tied to the life sheâs always knownâthe thug-life, drug-life tribe thatâs both her family and her cage. She was introduced to that world as a pre-teen and itâs all sheâs ever known, a world of hustle and survival, where trust is scarce and loyalty is bought with favors. The mainstream world, with its routines and rules, is alien to her, a landscape she doesnât know how to navigate. I encourage her to find an exit path, to imagine a life beyond the streets, but my words often feel like whispers against a hurricane. She listens, sometimes nods, but I can see the doubt in her eyes. That life is her home, for better or worse.
I keep praying for a miracle, asking her angels to guide her, to protect her when I canât. Sheâs youngâbarely twentyâbut the road sheâs on ages you fast. I figure by the time sheâs thirty, she might have the wisdom to make the changes she needs, to break free and build something new. But thatâs a decade away, and the streets donât always let people live that long. I pray she makes it, that sheâs still here, still shining, when that day comes.
As for me, Iâm oldâolder than I like to admit. My joints creak, my energy fades faster than it used to, and I know I might not be here when she reaches that turning point. The thought stings, but Iâve made peace with it. If Iâm gone by then, Iâll be watching from the other side, cheering her on, helping in whatever way the universe allows. I believe in thatâin a love that outlasts time, in a connection that doesnât end with a heartbeat.
For now, I keep my door open, my fridge stocked, and my prayers steady. Sheâs my granddaughter, not by blood but by something strongerâa bond forged in fleeting moments, in burgers shared and promises kept. And every time she walks through my door, eating my peanut butter and filling my house with her laughter, I thank God for the miracle of her, still here, still fighting, still stealing pieces of my soul.
I stumbled onto Gary Brandtâs Stolen Soul here on thedimensionofmind.com expecting just a quick read, but I honestly wasnât ready for how hard this would hit me. As a 20-year-old woman myself, reading about a girl basically my age navigating such a dark, chaotic world was terrifying, but the relationship in this story is literally the most wholesome thing Iâve read in a long time.
The story follows an older narrator who keeps crossing paths with a troubled young girl. It starts with small, random momentsâhe buys her a burger when sheâs trying to break into a vending machine; she brings him food later at a bus stop. Over the years, they form this accidental, deeply spiritual bond. He becomes her safety net as she spirals into homelessness and addiction.
The arc goes from these sweet, light interactions to a super dark place when she disappears and ends up in a mental hospital after a brutal assault. I was honestly holding my breath hoping sheâd be okay. By the end, theyâve established this "grandfather/granddaughter" dynamic that defies biology. It doesnât have a fairytale "sheâs fixed and everything is perfect" ending, but it ends on a note of quiet, enduring love.
The biggest twist for me wasnât an action sceneâit was the emotional reality check. The story starts with this hypothetical about saving a child from a speeding truck, making you think the narrator is going to be this big action hero. But the twist is that he canât save her like that.
When the narrator reveals that even after her recovery, she goes back to the "thug-life" because itâs all she knows, it broke my heart. You expect the "white knight" savior moment, but instead, you get something more real: a friend who just leaves the door unlocked and the peanut butter on the counter.
Gary Brandt has a way with words that just sticks with you. These two lines specifically made me tear up:
"I grew to love herânot in a way that crossed lines, but in the way you love a rare, fleeting thing, like a wildflower blooming in cracked pavement."
"She's my granddaughter, in every way but DNA."
This story gets deep. It captures that feeling of being young and lost so perfectly, but also the perspective of someone older watching it happen and feeling helpless. The part about the mental health system failing her ("No facilities will take her") made me so angry because it feels so true to life right now.
But mostly, itâs comforting. Knowing that people like the narrator existâwho will love you without judging your scars or your pastâgives me hope. If youâve ever felt lost or needed a reminder that human connection is still a thing, read this.
Rating: âââââ (5/5)
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