Final Fingerprints
by Emily Brown, age 17
The old lady was hunched over the table, pebble in one hand, paintbrush in the other. Her tongue peeked out from the corner of her lips — deep in thought, though no outside observer would be able to tell exactly what she was thinking.
Her crooked hands applied the colours gently, dot by dot, stroke by stroke. It was clear she had been painting for most of her life. Not professionally, perhaps, but she seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.
A few small lines appeared on the face of the stone. A few speckles of pastel pink and mossy green. A little bit of sunny yellow.
Her brow furrowed, her hands moving slowly, the old ring on her ring finger no longer as shiny as it had once been — she would have made an interesting picture herself, had there been anyone to see.
But as usual, she was alone. There was no one else there that could be seen, no one else at all. The picnic table in the park was a forgotten thing, and old ladies who painted rocks by dusklight, even more so.
A few more dabs at the pebble with her brush, and she smiled in satisfaction. “There.” The word was muttered to the wind.
The pebble was set down on the table, and the painting utensils were packed away. Goodbye, paints. Goodbye, brushes. Even the small cup of water she’d used to rinse the tip of her paintbrush was carefully put away.
Then, double-checking that the stone was now dry enough to carry, she swung her bag up onto her shoulder, reached for her cane with one hand, and clutched her artwork in the other.
It was not the first pebble she’d painted, but she was getting more and more sure that it would be the last — she was getting ready to go home. Not to the dusty old house where only her fridge and her bookshelf kept her company, no … her true home. Her forever.
All she was waiting for now was for the Maker to call her, to tell her that her work was done here. A moment that, she knew, crawled closer every day.
Hobbling on through the park, glad for the extra layer she wore against the chill, the old lady made her way back home — her temporary home. She could wait there as well as any other place.
But first, one last stop. One last fingerprint to leave on this world.
The fountain in the center of the park was often visited by families with young children or couples looking for a pretty spot to sit and talk. A handful of coins lay at the bottom of the cool, clear water, and the flowerbeds nearby provided the perfect opportunity.
She came up to the fountain first. Trailed her fingers through the water. Remembered when she’d come here often, back when she didn’t need to come alone. Back before she had to say goodbye. She’d said goodbye so many, many times now.
How nice it would be to say “hello” for once.
She contemplated leaving it on the edge of the fountain. But no — it might fall in, or be used as a toddler’s skipping stone, and then what use would her painting be? Washed off into the water. Gone.
No. It would be far better to leave it somewhere drier.
The flowerbeds beckoned, and the old lady traced the curves of the pebble once more before gently placing it in the earth, only slightly obscured by the sleeping flowers.
It was done.
She smiled, whispered a prayer that her painting would reach the right person, and then turned around to walk back through the park, back to the empty house, and the quiet that she’d gotten so used to.
Behind her, the pebble waited as well.
The painting on it was simple, but beautiful: a picture of a flower, petals blowing into the wind. And two words:
“Never Alone.”
The old lady didn’t see who found it, nor did she come back to check if anyone had. Her work was done.
Yes, before a lonely heart spied the colours through the flower-stems — before he read the carefully lettered words, before he clutched the hand-painted stone close to his chest and fought to hide the tears that finally, finally reached his eyes — that night, the old lady went home.
About the Author
Emily Brown is a Christian author, poet, and singer/songwriter from Australia. Beyond Pure in Heart Stories, she can be found sharing her music on her YouTube channel under the stage name Emmi Byrd, or writing on her Substack blog, The Bookwyrm Corner.
Next (Art: Spring Sun and Walking the Shore) >
< Previous (Story: Stars)
Image is AI-generated.
