TO LATE - BY Cathleen Mostert

Vereeniging breathed in smoke and exhaled sirens. The streets wore yesterday’s dust like a second skin, and the sky above the Vaal River sat heavy with grey clouds that never quite delivered rain. On a forgotten sidewalk outside the heart of Johannesburg’s southern edge, a young girl walked with no place to be and nowhere to return to. Her name was Grace. A name her mother whispered when she was still small enough to carry. A name that once meant something gentle. But life had hardened it. Now, even she barely remembered what it felt like to be someone’s “grace.” --- The city didn't care that she was only sixteen. It didn’t care that she ran away at thirteen to escape the beatings, the hands that shouldn’t have touched her, the nights filled with screaming. It didn’t care that her last birthday was spent hiding in an alley while fireworks popped like gunshots in the sky. Vereeniging, like so many places, had learned to forget its broken children. Grace blended into the corners — hair pulled under a faded beanie, baggy jeans with one working pocket, and sneakers held together by safety pins. She moved like smoke: silent, unnoticed, impossible to catch. --- That morning, she’d woken up behind the walls of a small Methodist church near Three Rivers. The stone had grown colder since winter began creeping in. The sunrise peeked over the rooftops, golden but heartless. She pressed her back against the wall and whispered, like she did every morning: "God, if You’re still there… I’m still here." Her breath curled in the air like smoke. No answer. Never was. But the habit of speaking to a silent heaven was one she couldn’t break. --- She walked through the streets of town, past the Pick n Pay she used to shop at with her mom before things got bad. Past the old record store that had long since closed down. Past people with car keys, handbags, Bluetooth headphones — people who crossed the street when they saw her coming. She was used to it. It still hurt. By noon, her stomach burned like acid. She checked the bin behind a bakery in Duncanville. Nothing. Not even a crust. She moved on. At the corner of Voortrekker Street, an old man sat playing a guitar with more cracks than sound. She dropped a bottle cap in his cup and kept walking. That’s when she saw her. A girl — maybe her age, maybe younger — standing at the entrance of the same church Grace had slept behind. She was sweeping the steps, humming softly. She had a soft blue doek wrapped around her head and eyes that looked like they still believed in good things. Grace froze. For a moment, she wanted to walk up and say hello. But what would she say? “Hi, I’m the girl sleeping behind your church. I haven’t showered in a week. I haven’t eaten in two.” Instead, she turned to leave. Then the girl looked up… and their eyes met. --- Grace’s heart raced. Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, and she ducked behind the building. She pressed herself against the wall, waiting for the usual: shouts, slurs, threats. She knew the routine. But nothing came. Only silence. Then—footsteps. Slow, careful. She curled into herself. A hand appeared around the corner. Not to hurt. To offer. It held a half loaf of warm white bread, wrapped in a serviette. The girl’s voice came gently, like wind through grass. “I don’t know your name. But I see you.” And then she was gone. --- Grace stared at the bread like it was a miracle. She took it slowly, holding it like something sacred. The smell made her eyes sting. She hadn’t cried in a long time — what was the point? But right there, behind the church in Vereeniging, with the warm bread in her hands, something cracked open. Not pain. Something else. Hope? No. Too dangerous. But maybe… maybe a beginning. That night, under a frayed blanket and a sky that couldn’t decide whether to rain, she whispered something new: "Thank You." She wasn’t sure if she meant the girl… …or God.