It was just a moment.
Grace, sitting across from Liam at Future Bakery. A paper star taped above a flyer on the corkboard. Five uneven points. Delicate. Out of place.
A detail like that could easily be missed. But that’s the thing about signs—they don’t usually arrive with trumpets. They show up quietly. Folded into the ordinary.
In The Second Coming of Grace, paper stars become a kind of breadcrumb trail. A symbol of something small but persistent: the idea that guidance is everywhere, if we’re paying attention. They show up again later—maybe in a dream, maybe on a park bench, maybe in a moment when Grace needs to remember who she is.
They’re not magical in the flashy sense. They’re not glowing or prophetic. But they speak.
To something tender.
To something true.
To the way the universe sometimes leaves us little notes on the fridge door of reality.
When I added the paper star into that early scene, I didn’t know it would return. But it did. And like Grace, I began to wonder: What if this is a message? What if the small, beautiful thing I almost dismissed is the thing I need to follow?
We don’t always get grand gestures.
But sometimes, we get paper stars.
Sometimes that’s enough.
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