“White for peace and purity,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the blue corner. “Blue for the water of baptism and the sky above. And the red—well, you know the red.”

“Looking for something specific?” a voice called out. Behind the counter sat Martha, a woman whose hands looked like they’d spent a lifetime smoothing out wrinkles in heavy fabric.

As he walked back to his truck, the flag tucked under his arm, he could already see it catching the light of the lake at sunset. It wasn’t just a purchase; it was the final piece of a promise kept to a man who had taught him that some symbols are meant to be flown high, not for the world to see, but for the soul to remember where it belongs.

Martha nodded slowly, as if she knew the weight of things that endure. She led him to the back, past rolls of velvet and gold-fringed tapestries, to a cedar chest. She pulled out a heavy nylon weave, the colors striking in the dim light: a field of pure white, a canton of deep blue, and a vibrant red cross.

“A Christian flag,” Elias said, tracing the grain of a wooden pew on display. “The old one... it didn’t make it through the winter.”