Emma[/@ch_1], a wide-eyed young girl clutching her blanket, her heart pounding with awe.] Emma blinked as the lingering light of her dream mingled with reality. She could still feel the warmth of the presence she’d seen—radiant and kind—and the words spoken to her echoed in her mind. The room felt changed, as if something sacred had touched it.

Martha[/@ch_2], Emma’s mother, stands at the counter, while Tom, her father, reads the newspaper at the table.] Emma shuffled in, her feet dragging, eyes bright with wonder. "Mom, Dad, I saw Jesus last night. He came to me and talked to me. He told me he loves me," she announced, voice trembling with excitement and hope.

Martha[/@ch_2] sets down her spoon, glancing at Tom, her brows furrowing. Tom folds his paper, his expression shifting from surprise to concern.] "Emma, sweetheart, it was just a dream," Martha said gently, trying to smile. "People don’t just see Jesus. Maybe you were imagining it after Sunday school," Tom added, his voice uncertain.

Emma felt alone, her heart aching with the need to be believed. She stared at the cross hanging above the mantel, tracing its outline with her eyes, remembering the gentle smile from her vision. Tears pricked her eyes, but she held onto the warmth she’d felt.

Emma knelt beside a patch of daisies, whispering a prayer. "If you’re still here, show me again. I need them to believe," she pleaded, her voice barely above the breeze. A sudden hush fell, and for a moment, sunlight seemed to glow brighter around her.

"Emma, we may not understand, but we love you," Martha said, reaching for her hand. "If Jesus spoke to you, then it must mean you’re special," Tom added, his tone gentle. Emma smiled, feeling the peace of her vision settle in her heart—a quiet certainty that she was seen, heard, and loved.