The face cloth was folded.
Not rolled. Not tossed. Not crumpled like the other burial linens.
Folded. Left in the place where it had once covered his face.
In the early morning hours, it was a detail that most would simply overlook.
Except one didn’t. The beloved disciple.
A heartbroken teenager who just had his entire world flipped upside down.
His rabbi was gone. His own life was in danger. And he was now charged with caring for a mother that was not his own.
It was a lot to process.
Still, he knew…
He knew about the servant and the master.
What Jewish boy didn’t?
Had this been a dinner party and not a burial site, he would have looked at his master’s cloth as his sign to clean up.
Crumpled and tossed aside? All clear. He was finished.
But folded?
Well, that meant something entirely different.
At the dinner table, the master simply intended to return to finish his meal.
But in that dark, cold tomb, it meant something much more. And the boy knew that.
His master had risen—just as he said he would—leaving behind a message with nothing but a single piece of cloth.
“I will return.”
And sure enough, he did.
And soon, very soon, he will again.