Stolen Soul
@ The Dimension Of Mind Dot Com

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**The Girl Who Stole a Piece of My Soul**

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. She’s 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, it’s just a guess—and the truth might surprise you.

Life, though, rarely unfolds so dramatically. It’s quieter, sneakier, weaving its lessons through chance encounters and fleeting moments. This is my story—a 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t paying—just trying to force it open. “Hungry?” I asked, keeping my distance. She froze, then nodded, stepping back like a startled deer. I pointed across the street to a burger joint. “Let me get you something.” Before she could answer, a gruff voice cut in. “Sixteen’ll get you twenty, pal. That’s my daughter you’re hitting on.” A man, maybe in his forties, stood behind her, his tone half-joking, half-wary. I laughed, holding up my hands. “She’s safe, I promise. Come on, I’ll buy you both lunch.” 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 wasn’t. 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. “For you,” she said, then darted off before I could respond. Inside was a burger, still warm. But it was her eyes that stopped me cold—bright, 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 couldn’t 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, I’d see her around town—a 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 her—not in a way that crossed lines, but in the way you love a rare, fleeting thing, like a wildflower blooming in cracked pavement. She didn’t feel the same. To her, I was just a kind old man, an easy mark for a freebie. I didn’t care. Her energy, her free spirit, her gentle kindness—it 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 wasn’t all light. She didn’t have a stable home, bouncing between friends’ couches and sometimes places that made my stomach turn—dingy 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. She’d roll her eyes, mutter “Whatever,” and walk away, her backpack slung low.

As she got older, she’d vanish for months, then reappear like nothing had changed. She’d flash that smile, but I could see the cracks—red-rimmed eyes, a nervous energy. Drugs, I suspected, and the men she hung around were too old, too rough. “If things get bad, I can help,” I told her more than once. She’d 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 couldn’t. 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 she’d found a better path.

But then her friends started asking if I’d seen her. No one knew where she was. I asked around, dread growing, until word came: she was in a mental hospital. She’d 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 weren’t sure if she’d 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 she’d taken, tied me to her suffering. I hurt with her, unable to pull away. I’d thanked God for knowing her, but I wasn’t ready for this agony. Anger surged—at 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 don’t 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 lost—wandering the dark corners of a dangerous city, trapped in the shadows of a broken mind—I braced for grief, expecting a process with a start and finish. But there’s 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 I’m 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 love—a gift I’ve always had but never truly valued until now.

It’s been a year since the darkest days,

and, thank God, she’s 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 I’d seen in months, though still carrying a weight I couldn’t fully grasp. She smiled—a 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. “No facilities will take her. There’s nothing available.” I didn’t believe it—not entirely. It was the state’s insurance provider, I suspected, unwilling to spend another dime on a girl they’d 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 wouldn’t help her. I turned to her instead, taking her hand. “If you’re ever in trouble again, if you feel yourself slipping, call me. Come to me. I’m here.” I knew I didn’t have all the answers, no grand solutions to fix her world. All I could offer was love—the 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 didn’t push. I just hoped she’d heard me.

Little by little, we’ve grown closer. Not in the way of daily phone calls or planned visits, but in the quiet, unspoken way trust builds between two people who’ve seen each other’s scars. When people see us together—the funny-looking old man with the gray hair and the young woman with a spark in her step—they ask who we are to each other. She grins and says, “He’s my grandpa.” I smile back and say, “She’s my granddaughter, in every way but DNA.” It’s a truth that runs deeper than blood. She’s family now, woven into my life like a thread I never expected to find.

I wish I could see her every day, but that’s not how her world works. She comes by my place every now and then, usually when she needs something—a few bucks, a ride, a safe place to crash. I always tell her, “Mi casa es su casa,” and she takes it to heart. She’ll walk in without knocking, head straight to the kitchen, and rummage through my fridge like it’s her own. I love that about her—the way she claims my space as hers, like she knows she’s 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. “Make yourself at home, kid,” I said, and she flashed that grin that first stole a piece of my soul.

But beneath the laughter, I worry. She’s still tied to the life she’s always known—the thug-life, drug-life tribe that’s both her family and her cage. She was introduced to that world as a pre-teen and it’s all she’s 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 doesn’t 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 can’t. She’s young—barely twenty—but the road she’s on ages you fast. I figure by the time she’s thirty, she might have the wisdom to make the changes she needs, to break free and build something new. But that’s a decade away, and the streets don’t always let people live that long. I pray she makes it, that she’s still here, still shining, when that day comes.

As for me, I’m old—older 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 I’ve made peace with it. If I’m gone by then, I’ll be watching from the other side, cheering her on, helping in whatever way the universe allows. I believe in that—in a love that outlasts time, in a connection that doesn’t end with a heartbeat.

For now, I keep my door open, my fridge stocked, and my prayers steady. She’s my granddaughter, not by blood but by something stronger—a 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.

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