Midnight Wanderer

Midnight Wanderer

I can’t sleep.

My eyelids are heavy, my limbs numb, but rest refuses to come.

Outside, the crickets hum their steady lullaby, and the night air presses in. It’s dark and mysterious, yet oddly comforting. The stillness wraps around the cabin like a secret, inviting me to step into it.

I lie awake, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, heart burdened with memory.

Willow would have loved it here.

This little Vermont town, quiet and tucked beside a still lake and thick woods, is exactly the kind of place she used to dream about. She talked about mornings on the porch with a cup of tea and a good book, barefoot walks along the water, watching rain fall from the screened in porch.

But she never got to see it.

Cancer stole her before we ever made it here.

She was only twenty-six.

Now, instead of her hand in mine, there is only silence. The bed beside me feels unbearably empty. I took a month off to get away and came to this cabin in the woods of Vermont. It belonged to my uncle, though we never found the time to visit. There was always an excuse. And then came the sickness. I thought coming here would help clear my head, but instead I could still feel the ghost of Willow.

I drag myself out of bed, my thoughts too restless to lie still.

In the kitchen, I heat a kettle for tea and stand at the window, staring out at the night sky. The clock reads midnight.

Without a second thought, I pull on my hiking boots, pour the tea into a thermos, and step out into the cool night air.

Walking was never something I cared for before. I used to prefer staying inside with a book. But tonight, my body needs to move if my mind is going to settle.

As I make my way down the dirt path that cuts through the woods, a quiet calm washes over me. The darkness doesn’t scare me. It feels like relief.

For the first time in a while, my thoughts drift not to Willow’s final days, but to the good times.

Laughter. Shared secrets. Sunlight on her face.

This feels like healing.

I return to the cabin feeling refreshed, almost whole again, and this time I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the next night, sleep refuses me once more.

Restless and uneasy, I decide to follow the same routine. Around midnight, I pull on my boots and grab a coat. It was starting to rain, and it was falling soft and steady.

Through the rain, the stars still shine behind the clouds, casting a faint glow, like a quiet beacon in the gloom of night.

I walk down the path, the trees looming overhead, their shadows stretched across the ground.

Soon I come upon a fork in the trail.

Standing there in the rain, I glance at my options.

To the left, the path curves uphill, disappearing into a thicket of trees. The right slopes gently downward, where the mist hang lows and thick.

Neither path looks particularly inviting or promising. But both are quiet. Still. Perfect for getting lost in thought.

I stand there for a long moment, rain soaking into my coat, the warmth of the tea long gone. There’s something comforting about not needing to decide for any real reason. Just the simple act of choosing a direction and seeing where it leads.

So I pick the right path. And I keep walking.

As I venture further down the path, the rain gradually eases, the soft patter fading until the world falls into a profound stillness. The air feels charged, as if there is magic in the forest ready to burst. Suddenly, a faint light appears in the distance. Maybe someone’s porch light? It casts a pale glow through the trees.

But then it moves. It begins to bob up and down, swaying gently from side to side. The light flicker softly, weaving through the shadows like a ballet.

Curiosity stirs deep inside me. Drawn toward it, I quicken my pace, hoping to find its source, to anchor this strange beacon in something real. But the closer I get, the farther it seems to drift, slipping just beyond my reach like a will-o’-the-wisp teasing me deeper into the woods.

Eventually, the light disappears altogether, swallowed by the dense trees. The darkness returns, thick and complete.

Still, I’m not afraid. There’s something about that elusive light, fragile and fleeting, that feels like hope.

Every night at midnight, the same ritual unfolds. Each time, I walk farther and farther down the path, chasing the glow that appears again and again. It never stays long, always just out of reach, flickering like a shy invitation, or perhaps a quiet farewell.

Despite its fleeting nature, the light’s gentle presence becomes a strange comfort, a quiet companion through the restless hours. It feels less like a mystery to be solved and more like a silent promise that I’m not entirely alone in this vast, dark world.

Could it be someone else seeking solace in the night?

Could it be the spirit of Willow, letting me know everything is okay?

With every step, I feel the weight on my chest ease just a little, as if the light carries away some of the heaviness I’ve been carrying. The cold night air sharpens my senses, the scent of damp earth and pine filling my lungs, grounding me in the moment.

Though I don’t know what it is, or if it’s even real, the light stirs something deep inside me. A simple comfort of something small but steady to rely on even when everything else feels lost. Hope, perhaps.

And so, night after night, I follow it, sometimes willing it to lead me somewhere new, sometimes just walking, letting it be my quiet guide through the dark.

On the last night of my stay, I feel more at peace. I still miss Willow, but I’m no longer a wreck.

At midnight, I go out for my walk one final time.

But unlike the nights before, the light is gone.

What could it have been?

I guess I’ll never know.

So instead, I’ll just sit here in the quiet and ponder.

A midnight wanderer.