I didn’t sleep the night before. I just lay there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling of the upper room, listening to the breath of men who still trusted me.

He looked at me different that night. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

“You’re going to do what you came to do,” he said quietly.

And I didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

Thirty silver coins. That’s all it took. Enough to buy a plot of land or bury a man—maybe both. When I first agreed, I told myself it was about justice. That he was stirring too much trouble, too fast. That someone had to stop it.

But deep down?

I just wanted to matter more than I did.

The temple guards were already waiting. Lanterns, swords, whispers in the olive grove. I led them like a sheepdog with blood in its mouth. I knew the place well—he always prayed there when things got too heavy. That night, they got heavier than I could carry.

I remember his face when I walked up to him.

“Rabbi,” I said, like I hadn’t already sold him.

And then I kissed him.

The softest betrayal in history.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. Just let it happen, like he’d already mourned me before I even left the table.

That was the last time I ever touched him.

Now the coins are in my hand, and his blood is on them—though they haven’t seen a drop. I can’t stop shaking. I thought this would make me powerful. But I’ve never felt smaller.

And I keep hearing his voice in my head…

“Friend, do what you came for.”

Friend.

I don’t know if that word will ever stop haunting me.

---

I thought I’d feel something after. Some rush. Relief. Control. But I just felt hollow.

They took him like he was nothing. No fight. No resistance. He just… went.

And I watched them walk away with him, his hands tied, the torches flickering behind them. My feet stayed planted in the dirt like they’d grown roots in regret.

I didn’t go back to the others. I couldn’t face their faces. Especially not Elior’s—he’d see right through me. He always did.

I ended up wandering the outer edges of the city. Too ashamed to sleep. Too sick to eat.

The silver felt heavier with every hour. I tried to shove the pouch deep into my cloak, like hiding it would erase what I’d done. But it was still there. It burned.

I kept thinking about the way he looked at me. Not with hate. Worse—with love. Even in that moment.

It would’ve been easier if he’d spit in my face. Yelled. Cursed me. But he didn’t. He called me friend.

I didn’t deserve that word. I didn’t deserve anything.

By the third day, rumors were flying. Whispers in the alleys. People talking fast, like they were afraid to say it too loud.

They’d crucified him.

And the sky had turned black.

I felt like the whole earth had taken a breath and was waiting to exhale. Like nature itself knew something we didn’t.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I went back to the temple.

The men who paid me were sitting around like nothing had happened. Laughing. Eating dates off a silver plate.

I threw the coins at them so hard, one bounced and hit a jar.

“I don’t want it,” I said, voice shaking. “I don’t want your blood money.”

They barely looked at me. One of them smirked and said, “It’s yours. You earned it.”

I left the temple running. I didn’t know where I was going. Just away.

Everything blurred. My legs, my thoughts, the people in the streets. All I could hear was his voice, that word—friend—looping in my head like a curse.

At one point, I found myself standing near the edge of the valley. There was a tree not far from the cliff. Strong trunk. Thick branch.

And I had rope in my bag.

I’d brought it to tie up my cloak in case of rain. But now, in my hands, it felt like judgment.

I stared at the tree for a long time. Wondering if it would finally quiet the voice in my head.

But just as I reached into my bag, I heard footsteps.

Soft, slow ones.

I turned and saw her.

Anara.

I hadn’t seen her since Galilee.

She’d followed him, too—like the rest of us. But quieter. Gentler. She listened more than she spoke.

She said nothing when she saw me. Just walked up slowly and stood next to me.

I waited for her to slap me. To scream.

Instead, she asked, “Is this what you think he would’ve wanted?”

I didn’t know what to say. My throat burned.

“He called you friend,” she whispered. “Not enemy. Not traitor. Friend.”

I dropped the rope.

We sat in silence for a long time, watching the valley below.

Then she said something I’ll never forget.

“He already forgave you, Judah. You’re the only one who hasn’t.”

My name in her mouth hit me harder than any accusation.

Judah. Not traitor. Not thief. Just Judah.

I cried harder than I had in years.

Over the next few weeks, I disappeared from the city.

Not out of cowardice—but to rebuild.

I went back to the village where I grew up. My uncle still lived there. He let me sleep in the barn, no questions asked.

I started working in the fields. Quiet, humble work. No attention. No praise. Just dirt under my fingernails and a sore back at the end of the day.

I stopped trying to explain what I’d done. No one would understand. And those who did… well, they didn’t need to hear it again.

But word traveled fast. Especially the part I didn’t expect.

They said he rose.

Alive.

I didn’t believe it at first. It sounded like something we all wanted to believe. Something too good to be true.

But then I saw Elior.

He found me one morning, standing knee-deep in the river, washing grime from my arms.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at me. Really looked at me.

Then he stepped in and hugged me. Tight.

“You’re still breathing,” he said into my shoulder.

“Barely,” I whispered.

“He asked about you,” Elior said, pulling back. “After everything.”

I couldn’t hold his gaze.

“He said, ‘Tell Judah I still see him.’”

I dropped to my knees right there in the river.

That night, I couldn’t sleep again. But not from guilt.

From something else. Something lighter. Hope, maybe.

I started helping people in the village. Not because I was trying to earn anything. But because I finally understood what grace felt like.

Real grace doesn’t come with strings. It doesn’t keep score. It meets you right where you are and says, “You’re still mine.”

I told stories, quietly. Not the flashy ones. The real ones. About how easy it is to fall. How hard it is to get back up. And how sometimes, the people you least expect reach out their hand and help you rise.

I never forgot what I did.

But I also never forgot what he said.

Friend.

Years passed.

The silver was long gone. The scars stayed. But they didn’t burn like before. They reminded me I was still here. Still learning.

One spring day, I returned to the olive grove.

The trees had grown thicker. The air smelled the same. Dusty and sweet.

I knelt by the spot where I last saw him.

And I whispered, “Thank you.”

Not just for forgiving me.

But for calling me friend—before I even knew how badly I needed to hear it.