Soft Footsteps

Silence pressed in around the Alt Neu Shul.

Not the sharp silence of pursuit, but the long, suspended kind—where minutes loosen their grip and slide into hours without asking permission. The candles burned low. Wax pooled and hardened. Nothing moved.

Then—

A sound at the back of the synagogue.

The door.

It creaked as it opened, slow and cautious, as if the building itself were listening. Footsteps followed. Light. Measured.

Not soldiers.
Not jackboots.

Softer.

Chaim held his breath.

A voice, barely more than air.

“Chaim.”

His heart stuttered.

“Chaim, are you here?”

Another step inside.

“Bist du hier?” (Are you here?)

Rivka.

“My sister,” he whispered, the words breaking apart in his mouth. “Rivi.”

He came out from behind the pillar, blinking like someone pulled from deep water. For a moment she didn’t see him—then she did, and her hand flew to her mouth.

They collided quietly, arms wrapping tight, foreheads pressed together. They shook. They cried. Chaim couldn’t stop it.

Rivka lifted a finger and pressed it gently to his lips.

“Shh.”

They held each other anyway.

After a while, his voice returned, thin and uncertain.

“What now?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She listened—to the walls, to the night beyond them, to the absence where danger had been.

Finally, she whispered, “We wait.”

Outside, the city said nothing.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

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Aaron Rose is a software engineer and technology writer at tech-reader.blog and aaronrose.blog.