The question caught Luke off guard.
Most people didn’t ask himwhyhe did what he did. He was usually the one asking questions.
When others did decide to turn the tables on him, they generally asked about his stories.
Not this. Not something personal.
He glanced behind them and saw the camera crew had backed off and were taking some B-roll instead. Still, he lowered his voice before answering, wanting to keep this conversation private.
“I guess you could say I’ve learned that journalism is more coffee and less glamour.” He shrugged as they began walking again.
Amayah smiled, but Luke knew she wasn’t done with her questions yet.
“Why choose to be a reporter?” she continued. “You’re smart. You could have probably done anything, and some people think journalism is a dying profession.”
Snow crunched softly beneath their steps as they continued down the decorated street. Luke found himself staring a little too long at the way a curl had slipped loose from her scarf.
He forced his attention forward.
“Truth matters. Or at least . . . it used to.” He exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the cold air. “I guess I thought if I dug deep enough, I’d help people see what’s real. Pull back the noise. The illusion.”
“That’s noble.” She said the words as if she meant them.
However, he didn’t feel noble.
He felt tired. Weathered at the edges. Wary of hope.
Luke cleared his throat. “I didn’t start out sounding like I wanted to lead a crusade. I was just a kid with a notebook and too many questions. Got my first internship at nineteen—tiny paper, bad coffee, worse pay. I covered anything they’d give me: school board meetings, pothole repairs, the county fair. But I loved it. I loved digging for the truth. The stories behind the stories. The way the smallest detail could change an entire narrative.”
Amayah listened, her total attention on him.
“I jumped to theHeralda few years later. Worked my way up from obituaries and restaurant openings to long-form features. Human-interest stories. Things that helped people understand each other.” His voice softened. “That was my favorite. It felt . . . decent. Like journalism the way it was supposed to be.”
Her expression warmed. “And now?”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Now? Most days I chase whatever gets clicks. ‘Ten Ways Your Neighbor Might Be a Menace.’ ‘One Tiny Habit that Could Make Your Week 300% Better.’ That kind of garbage.” He shook his head. “It’s easier to get attention with shock than with nuance. My editor knows it. I know it. Doesn’t mean it sits right.”
“It sounds like it wasn’t what you set out to do. But maybe that can change once your editor sees how dedicated you are.”
“Maybe.” He hesitated before finishing. “I keep hoping if I write enough truth, if I just keep at it, maybe it will matter. Maybe people would care enough to look deeper.” His eyes lifted to hers. “But somewhere along the way . . . I stopped knowing if I still believe that.”
“And now?” She peered up at him, her eyes wide and . . . luminous.
His mouth curved faintly, though there wasn’t much humor behind it. “Now I’m not always sure the truth still interests anyone. But here I am, still chasing it anyway.”
She studied him as if weighing something. Then she finally said, “That sounds like faith to me.”
He almost denied it. Almost laughed it off—becausefaithwasn’t a word he claimed much anymore.
But her comment brushed against something he didn’t expect: the quiet, awkward prayer he’d muttered yesterday after his first meeting with Amayah. He’d expected it to feel wrong, but it hadn’t. In fact, praying had felt good.
It had felt . . . right, like a homecoming of sorts.
He cleared his throat, unsettled by how close she’d come to the truth. “Or stubbornness.”
“Sometimes they look the same.” She flashed a knowing smile, warm and disarming, as if she saw the tension inside him and didn’t find it strange at all.
As they continued walking, Luke realized just how easy their conversation felt.
