The Man Who Slept Through the Summer.

There was once a man who lived in a small cottage at the edge of a forest, where winter came early and lingered long. His name was Eli, and he was known in his village as a man of quiet strength , the kind who never complained when the winds howled through the trees or when snow climbed over the windowsills.

Eli had learned long ago how to survive the cold. He sealed his windows with thick cloth. He stacked firewood so high the pile touched the eaves. He drank bitter root tea that burned going down but kept the shivers away. And when the night stretched into bitter silence, he would wrap himself in his father's old coat, heavy as a memory, and tell himself: You are strong. You can endure.

And he did.

But the winter did not last forever. One day, the snow melted quietly, as it always does, with more a sigh than a ceremony. The birds returned, hesitant but hopeful. The creek outside Eli’s cottage, once sealed in ice, sang again beneath the trees.

But Eli did not open his windows.

The fire still burned in his hearth, even as the sun rose earlier and stayed longer. He wore the heavy coat still, and drank the bitter root tea, grimacing at the heat it built inside him. At night, he tossed and turned, drenched in sweat, blaming the mattress, the creaking roof, the odd rustle of a breeze that slipped through despite the cloth he kept nailed to the sill.

“Something is wrong with the nights,” he muttered. “They feel fevered and restless.”

But nothing was wrong with the nights. It was summer.

Still, Eli kept to his rituals. He believed in faithfulness. He had been taught to endure, and endurance, he believed, was always noble. It was what made men like his father strong , men who did not break when the cold tried to swallow them.

But he was not in winter anymore.

One afternoon, a boy from the village came to visit. He was carrying a gift ...a small, wooden fan he’d carved himself, simple but clever, with blades that spun in even the slightest breeze. He handed it to Eli with the bright generosity that only the young carry without shame.

“It’s too hot in here,” the boy said. “You should let the air in.”

Eli took the fan politely, but placed it on a shelf where it gathered dust. “I am used to the cold,” he said. “I know how to live with it.”

The boy tilted his head, puzzled. “But it’s not cold anymore.”

Eli said nothing.

That night, the fire died in the hearth, not because Eli willed it, but because the wood, damp with summer’s humidity, refused to burn. The tea tasted like ash on his tongue. His sleep, once troubled, now broke altogether.

And so, before dawn, he rose and stepped outside for the first time in weeks.

The air was thick and soft. The trees shimmered with green so vivid it ached to look at. The creek, lit by moonlight, curved like a silver ribbon through the dark. And from the window of a neighboring house, laughter spilled like a warm song.

Eli stood in the quiet.

He removed his coat.

He loosened the cloth from the windows.

He walked back inside and picked up the fan.

When the morning sun came, it found him asleep in his chair, face turned toward the open window, where the breeze wandered in gently, carrying the scent of wild mint and memory.

---

Some say Eli never fully explained the change. He still spoke little. But he began to smile more. He planted basil in the garden. He started boiling honey-sweet tea instead of the bitter brew. And in the evenings, he would sit on his porch and wave to passing children, the little fan whirring quietly beside him.

He didn’t talk much about winter anymore. Not because he had forgotten it -he hadn’t. But because he had finally learned that survival in one season is not the same as wisdom in another.

And sometimes, strength means knowing when to take off the coat.