Chapter One: Blood in the Lilies

She walked barefoot through the field of lilies—her favourite. The delicate white flowers shimmered like pearls in the morning sun, their scent light and sweet in the breeze. Her fingertips grazed their soft petals as she passed, and a smile bloomed on her lips.

Here, in this field, she was free. Whole. Happy.

Then, without warning a loud boom sounded above her – thunder. It was sudden. Hollow. It rolled across the sky like a great drumbeat

echoing from heaven’s vault. She stopped and turned her face to the clouds, the sun had vanished behind a bruised curtain of grey.

A drop fell. Then another. She tilted her face up. Rain, she thought. Rain was good. Rain was life. But when the drops landed on her skin, she froze. Something was wrong, the drops were red, thick, warm. It was blood.

She stared at her arms, now streaked in crimson. More drops fell— splattering against her white dress, staining the field. She gasped.

Stumbled back. All around her, the lilies were turning red. The soil ran dark. The rain fell in torrents now—hot, suffocating. A storm of blood.

She tried to run, to flee—but the ground beneath her turned slick. She slipped, cried out, and fell into a river she hadn’t seen before. It raged with red fury, pulling her under. She screamed as she drowned in it.

Chapter Two: Naomi

Naomi awoke with a choked cry, lungs grasping for air, her chest rising and falling in ragged heaves. Her body trembled beneath the thin blanket. She stared into the darkness, wide-eyed. But it wasn’t the dream that made her shake. It was the wetness she felt beneath her. She didn’t even need to check. She already knew. Twelve years.

Twelve years of waking to this same nightmare, and twelve years of this same reality—the blood that came without cause, without pause.

Sometimes in the night. Sometimes in the day. Sometimes both.

She had tried everything. Tying herself with layers of cloth so tight she could barely walk. Hiding the stains beneath heavier garments. The shame. The embarrassed silence of everyone she knew. The sleepless nights of prayers.

The doctors took her gold and gave her bitter herbs. The priests offered rituals. The healers gave her potions that burned her insides. Shamans danced and chanted until she was dizzy. And still the blood came.

Her inheritance—gone. Her home—sold.

Her name—reduced to a whisper.

The woman with the issue of blood.

She drew her legs up to her chest and wept quietly in the dark, her tears falling into hands that had prayed too long and too hard.

Chapter Three: Rumors at the River

The morning sun was already warm when Naomi arrived at the wash river, a basket of stained linens in her arms. Other women were there, their laughter rising in bursts above the gentle current. She veered away, as always, settling farther downstream.

They noticed her and as always, their voices dropped. She tried not to hear what they were whispering. She didn’t want to care. She focused on scrubbing the cloth, the pink water swirling at her knees. But one voice caught her attention.

“How is young Samuel?” someone asked. “Are the sores still worrying him?”

“They’re worse,” came the weary reply. “He scratches all night. I tell him not to, but he cries and says, ‘But it itches so much.’ I’m afraid the priests will soon declare him unclean.” A sob slipped through.

“Why don’t you take him to Jesus?” another woman asked gently. The mother blinked. “Why would I do that?”

“I’ve heard tales,” the woman said. “They say He heals the sick… even the

demon-possessed. They say He raises the dead.” “I don’t know…”

“Remember David?” another voice chimed in. “My master’s nephew? He fell three Sabbaths ago, broke both of his legs. Couldn’t walk at all but they took him to Jesus—and now he walks again.”

“I’ve heard it too,” someone said. “He can do anything.”

Naomi stopped scrubbing. Her hands froze in the water, her heartbeat quickening. An idea was forming in her mind but she dared not think about it, she didn’t dare to hope.

“Where will I find this Jesus?” the mother asked.

“My husband said He and His disciples were seen crossing the lake. Some fishermen say they’re coming here today.”

“I’ll get Samuel ready,” the mother whispered, her voice trembling. “If He comes… I’ll be there. I must. My poor boy…”

Naomi’s heart pounded in her chest. Jesus. Could He be the answer? Could He do what no doctor, priest, or healer could?

She whispered to herself, barely believing her own voice:

“Even if I can touch the hem of His garment… I will be made whole.”

She stuffed the half-washed clothes into her basket and rose to her feet, a new fire in her soul. She walked back toward her home, her steps no longer tinged with shame, but with determination.

Chapter Four: The Touch

By the time she arrived, the town was chaos. Jesus was here. The crowd surged like a living thing—waves of people shouting, reaching, crying out. Some stood on their toes. Others pushed through with wild eyes. Parents hoisted children. Old men wept. The air buzzed with desperation.

Naomi stood at the edge, unable to see Him. But she knew he was here. She took a deep breath and tied her garment tightly around her waist. Her jaw clenched. Then—she moved. She pushed into the crowd. Elbows struck her. She stumbled, but kept moving. She ducked, dropped to her knees, crawling through the maze of legs and feet and sandaled steps.

Dust filled her nostrils. A foot slammed down on her hand. She screamed.

“Watch where you’re crawling, you rat,” the man barked, not even looking down.

Still, she moved. She was close now. Through the dust and bodies, she saw Him—Jesus—speaking with someone. It was Jairus, a synagogue leader. Naomi had seen him before. He looked frantic, pleading. He seemed like he was urging Jesus to something and when he had finished speaking Jesus nodded and began to follow him.

But He was walking away from her, No! He was walking away.

Naomi pushed harder. Her fingers were bruised now, her knees red with bruises. But she didn’t stop. She reached out and er hand shot forward, and just as Jesus passed, her fingers brushed the hem of His garment.

In that instant—Everything changed. It was as though something deep inside her—some hollow, broken thing—was suddenly filled. Her breath caught. Her body stilled. And then—peace. A warmth bloomed in her chest, spread through her limbs. Light. Joy. A lightness she hadn’t felt in twelve long years.

She was healed.

Chapter Five: Who Touched Me?

Jesus stopped. He turned.

“Who touched Me?”

Peter looked at Him, puzzled. “Master, the crowd’s been pressing around You all day. At least a hundred people have touched You.”

Jesus shook His head, a knowing smile flickering at the corners of His lips.

“No,” He said. “Someone touched Me. I felt it when the virtue left Me.”

Those nearby fell silent. Jesus turned, eyes scanning the crowd.

Naomi was still crouched low, stunned, her heart thudding. She looked up—and met His eyes. The crowd moved aside slowly, parting like the sea. Whispers filled the air. She stood up and took a shuddering breath.

Then she stepped forward and fell at His feet, trembling. Words caught in her throat. Tears fell freely from her eyes.

Jesus reached out and gently lifted her by the shoulders. His smile was soft and so tender.

“Daughter,” He said, voice warm and full of wonder, “your faith has made

you whole. Go in peace, and be freed from your suffering.”

She wept anew—but now, they were tears of joy. He turned and continued on His way. Naomi stood there, still in the crowd, but no longer alone.

No longer broken. She was no longer the woman with the issue of blood.

She smiled—tears on her face, joy in her heart.

And for the first time in twelve years…

She felt clean.