When the Wind Knocks Softly

The walls held the scent of old paper and cedar polish, soaked in decades of quiet toil. My slippers made no sound on the wooden floor, worn smooth from pacing. Outside, a slow wind teased the branches — not enough to move them, just enough to remind me that time was passing.

The burning started in my chest. Not the sharp, panicked stab that sends men grasping for phones. No, this was different. It was slow. Molten. The kind of ache that settles beneath the ribs like something long-forgotten, stirring only when the world is still. It curled inward, radiating through bone and breath, growing heavier with each exhale. I reached for the window, and my hand faltered mid-motion, breath snagging in my throat — not from fear, but from something more final. Like an actor who’d missed his cue… and knew the scene would go on without him.

My birthday was in a month. Ninety-one. Old. But not old enough to let go. Not yet.

I sank back into the chair near my writing desk, bones creaking in protest. The sun leaned in through the glass, tracing dust motes in the still air. My manuscript lay open, the ink on the top page barely dry. Twelve chapters done. The final one only sketched in pencil.

“I just need six more weeks,” I muttered. “Let me finish the damn book.”

That’s when the breeze came. It didn’t knock or stir the curtains like some dramatic omen. It entered with a hush, soft as a lullaby, like the exhale of a world too kind to interrupt. It smelled faintly of nectarine blossom and brought with it a feeling I hadn’t felt since childhood. That unspoken certainty that someone was standing behind you, watching. Not with menace. But with knowing.

I turned.

There God was. No halo. No gold. Just a man—ordinary in appearance, save for the stillness around Him. The kind of presence you might pass on a quiet road and feel comforted by, for no reason at all.

He sat in the chair across from mine, as if we’d done this a thousand times.

“You’re early,” I said, voice dry with defiance.

He smiled softly. “No. You’re late.”

I blinked, unsure whether to laugh or weep. “I’m not ready.”

“No one is,” He said. “But readiness was never the point.”

I pointed toward the desk, heart thumping.

“Look at that. Three unfinished manuscripts. And that one—” I jabbed a finger toward the pile. “That one matters. I’ve been building toward it my whole life. If I could just—”

He raised a hand. “One more book?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“And then?” He leaned forward. “Then you’ll be satisfied? Or will it be one more idea? One more draft? One more edit to perfect the sentence no one else will ever notice?”

I didn’t answer.

“You’ve published twelve books,” He said. “And still you speak as though you’ve never said what needed to be said. But I was listening. I heard every word.”

He turned His gaze to the window, eyes resting on the distant trees.

“You don’t write because the world listens. You write because you must remember. You remember for those who forget. For those not yet born. And for Me.”

I looked at Him, uncertain. “But will any of it be remembered?”

He smiled—not with pity, but with the quiet certainty of someone who understands time.

“But dear one, you were never meant to write to be remembered. You wrote because there was something you needed to share. And isn’t the act of sharing… enough?”

Silence settled between us. Not the kind that aches but the kind that heals. The kind that’s not empty, but full of what’s passed, and what waits beyond words.

The wind stirred again. A page lifted from the manuscript lightly, curiously, then another. They caught the air like leaves and floated across the room. One brushed my shoulder on its way past, and for the first time, I didn’t reach out to stop it.

I watched the pages dance toward the window and lift into the open sky. Not lost. Not discarded. Returned.

He stood and crossed the floor. I expected judgment or some ceremonial parting, but there was none. Only a stillness that felt like peace.

“You were never meant to hold on forever,” He said. “You are not a conclusion. You are a threshold.”

I closed my eyes. For the first time in years, the ache in my chest quieted. The burning cooled, like twilight falling on hot stone. I thought of autumn—not its sadness but its strange serenity. The way leaves let go without protest. How they do not fight the fall because they trust the soil will remember.

“You see,” He said gently, watching me drift, “a leaf does not fear its fall. It is not the end. It is the reservation for the next season.”

I nodded faintly. “And the ground… it never forgets.”

He smiled. “Each leaf feeds the roots. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is lost.”

I thought of all my words—scattered across shelves, minds, years. Maybe they were never meant to be understood in my time. Maybe they were only seeds, waiting for the right spring.

He reached for my hand. His grip was firm, familiar.

And just before the room began to fade, I whispered, “Will anything grow from me?”

His voice came like a warm wind in tall grass: “It already has.”

My eyes sting, but not from the cough.

“I’m afraid,” I whisper.

“I know,” He says.

“And angry. That no one really read me.”

“I did,” He says. “And I remembered.”

We sit in silence. Not the kind that aches, but the kind that heals. The kind that’s not empty, but full of what’s passed and what waits beyond words.

Outside, a single leaf broke free, fluttering sideways in the amber light. It didn’t fall. It drifted, like it remembered the sky. Like it knew the ground was not the end, but a return.

He rises. I don’t see Him move. He simply stands, and I know the time has shifted again.

“You’re not taking me,” I say.

“No, but when your spirit leans toward the door… I’ll walk beside you.”

The breeze opens the door.

And I rise.