Nothing between us now.

Before either of them ever heard His voice, there was the table.

It sat low and scarred in the priests’ quarters, rubbed smooth by years of elbows, bread, and arguments that never quite surfaced. Oil lamps burned above it, their light warming stone walls built to outlast the men who served within them.

Eliab always sat on the right.

Micah across from him.

They had learned the Law together. Learned how to wash, how to stand, how to speak to God without presuming He would answer back.

That night, Micah barely touched his bread.

Eliab noticed.

“You’ve been distracted,” Eliab said, tearing a piece free. “You missed the psalm.”

Micah smiled faintly. “I didn’t forget it.”

“Then why didn’t you say it?”

Micah hesitated, his eyes drifting toward the doorway that led deeper into the temple. Thinking of the veil.

“I’m starting to feel something change in the words.”

Eliab frowned. “The words don’t change.”

“No,” Micah said slowly. “But I think I am.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You’ve been listening to that Nazarene,” Eliab said at last.

“Yes.”

Eliab’s jaw tightened. “He speaks recklessly.”

“He speaks with authority,” Micah replied gently.

“That’s not the same thing.”

Micah leaned forward, lowering his voice. “What if it is?”

One evening, as the lamps were being trimmed and the courts grew quiet, Micah found Eliab alone near the inner passageway.

The veil hung ahead of them, still, heavy, unquestioned.

Micah stopped beside him.

“Do you ever wonder,” Micah asked, “why it’s so thick?”

Eliab glanced at him, surprised. “So no one forgets what’s holy.”

Micah nodded. “Or so no one gets too close.”

Eliab studied him now. “God is not meant to be approached casually.”

“I know,” Micah said. “But sometimes I wonder if we’ve confused distance with reverence.”

Eliab stiffened. “Distance can be obedience.”

Micah didn’t argue. He simply looked at the veil—at the way it absorbed the light rather than reflected it.

“Do you think,” he said carefully, “that it was always meant to stay?”

Eliab’s jaw tightened. “It stands because God commanded it.”

“Yes,” Micah said. “But God also commanded the tabernacle, and then let Solomon replace it. He commanded manna, and then let it stop.”

Eliab turned fully toward him now. “Be careful.”

Micah met his gaze, not defiant, just earnest. “I am. That’s why I’m asking.”

Silence stretched between them.

“If the veil were gone,” Micah said at last, barely above a whisper, “would God be less holy?”

Eliab didn’t answer.

Micah waited, then nodded slowly as if the absence of an answer had answered something after all.

As he turned to leave, Eliab spoke.

“The veil protects us,” he said.

Micah paused. “Or it protects our fear,” he replied gently.

He walked away before Eliab could respond.

Eliab remained where he was, staring at the veil longer than he ever had before—uneasy with a question he could no longer unthink.

In the days that followed, Micah lingered less in the inner courts.

He walked among people instead—asking questions, greeting strangers, listening more than he spoke.

He listened to Jesus speak of mercy as something lived, not guarded. Of God not as distant holiness, but as a Father walking alongside His children.

One afternoon, when the crowd thinned, Micah waited and asked, “How do you pray when you feel unworthy?”

Jesus looked at him for a long moment.

“You come anyway.”

That answer stayed with him.

It followed him back into the temple, where the veil still hung—thick, unmoving.

But it felt thinner now.

The morning Micah left, Eliab found him folding his garments.

“You’re serious,” Eliab said, disbelief tightening his voice.

“I am.”

“You’re abandoning your calling.”

Micah looked up. “No. I think I misunderstood it.”

Eliab’s voice sharpened. “God dwells behind the veil.”

Micah nodded. “And yet Jesus speaks as if God is moving toward us.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“So is staying still when God is moving.”

Eliab’s hands clenched. “You’ll lose everything.”

Micah met his eyes. “I already have. And somehow… I’m lighter for it.”

Eliab didn’t understand the look on Micah’s face.

Peace.

Not rebellion.

Something whole.

As Micah walked away, Eliab watched him go, unsettled by the warmth that seemed to follow him with every step.

Weeks later, Eliab saw him again.

This time, it was outside the temple.

Jesus was teaching.

Eliab stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, prepared to scoff.

Then he saw Micah.

He looked different—not louder, not grander. Simply present.

Micah listened with reverence, his mind and heart aligned in a way Eliab could not name. His eyes met people’s. A quiet steadiness surrounded him. Others leaned in without effort.

Eliab scoffed softly.

But something in his chest tightened.

That Friday, everything changed.

When news came that the Nazarene had been arrested and condemned, Eliab stood among the other priests.

“Finally,” someone said.

Eliab echoed it aloud.

But inside, something rose that would not settle.

Micah stood near the cross.

Too near.

He watched Jesus’ body strain for breath, heard the words come slower now.

This isn’t how kingdoms arrive, Micah thought desperately.

“You said God was near,” he whispered. “This looks like loss.”

Jesus lifted His head.

Their eyes met.

Micah felt seen—not judged, not dismissed.

Known.

The spear pierced His side.

Blood and water flowed.

Micah’s knees buckled.

This is the veil, he realized.

Not cloth. Flesh.

God wasn’t hidden anymore.

God was giving Himself away.

Eliab remained in the temple.

When the ground shook and the veil tore, he fell backward in terror.

He stared into the Most Holy Place.

Nothing happened.

No fire.

No death.

Just open space.

“I don’t understand,” Eliab whispered.

And for the first time, he knew that was true.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Then Pentecost.

Jerusalem filled with sound—languages, voices, wonder.

Eliab followed the noise.

Questions had been piling up inside him since the veil tore, questions he could no longer silence.

At the edge of the crowd, he saw the man who once forgot the psalm before eating.

Their eyes met.

Micah’s face lit with warmth—unguarded, welcoming.

“Eliab,” Micah said, stepping forward. He embraced him without hesitation.

Eliab stiffened—then slowly returned it.

That warmth…

he recognized it.

He had known Micah for years.

But he had never given warmth like this.

A man spoke nearby—Galilean accent, steady voice.

“Repent and be baptized,” Peter proclaimed, “for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.”

Eliab’s breath caught.

Micah leaned close. “This is what He meant. God didn’t wait behind the veil.”

Eliab whispered, “I thought distance was faith.”

Micah smiled softly. “So did I.”

Peter’s voice rose again.

“The promise is for you.”

Micah looked at Eliab—eyes full, patient, kind.

“Come,” he said.

And Eliab stepped forward.

Into a Kingdom no longer guarded by fear.

Into His presence no veil could hide.