The Woman Who Spoke in Weather

Story

The Woman Who Spoke in Weather

Harold Linton had been the city’s morning weatherman for nineteen years. He was steady, reliable, and rarely surprised — the kind of man who could read a sky like a favorite book. His office sat on the eleventh floor of a squat, concrete building downtown, where he had a perfect view of Ashbury Street.

It was on Ashbury that he first noticed her.

Every morning, precisely at 7:42 a.m., a woman in a green coat passed his window. Her steps were brisk, her scarf trailing like a ribbon caught in an invisible wind. Harold might never have paid her much mind, except for one peculiar thing: the weather changed when she walked by.

The first time he saw her, it was an ordinary Tuesday. The forecast had promised nothing but thin clouds, yet as she approached, a light rain began to fall — soft, shimmering droplets that glittered in the dawn. She paused, tilted her head back, and smiled into the drizzle as though it were a private joke.

The moment she turned the corner, the rain stopped.

At first, Harold told himself it was coincidence. But then it happened again. And again.

If she wore a bright red umbrella, the day would be sunny and warm, even if storm fronts had been certain. If she walked with her head down, hands buried in her coat pockets, the skies would fill with low, brooding clouds. If she paused to speak to someone, a breeze would swirl around her, tugging at her hair as though the air itself was curious about her words.

Harold began tracking her patterns on his weather charts — not just temperature, humidity, and barometric pressure, but her moods, as best he could guess them. A page from his notebook read:

March 14 – scarf trailing loosely – partly cloudy, mild breeze.

March 16 – no scarf, hurried walk – heavy rain.

March 21 – stopped to look in shop window – sunlight through broken clouds.

It was absurd, of course. Weather was science, not whimsy. And yet… the data was undeniable.

Weeks passed, and Harold found himself waiting at his desk each morning, coffee cooling by his hand, eyes on the sidewalk below. The sight of her felt like reading the first line of a good novel — he never knew what the ending would be, but he knew he’d enjoy the journey.

Then, one Monday morning, she didn’t come.

Harold stared at Ashbury Street until the clock struck eight, but there was no green coat, no red umbrella, no flick of her scarf. The air outside was clear and motionless, the kind of blank sky weather forecasters called "settled."

The next day, she was absent again.

And the next.

By Friday, Harold realized the sky hadn’t changed all week. No rain. No wind. Just a fixed, glassy blue from horizon to horizon, as if someone had pressed pause on the world. The air grew heavy with stillness, and Harold felt it pressing on his chest.

On Saturday morning, for the first time in years, he left the building early and walked Ashbury Street himself. He checked every café, every bus stop, every shop window. He asked a fruit vendor if he had seen a woman in a green coat. The vendor shook his head.

“She was here last month,” the man said. “Always smiling at the sky, that one. But haven’t seen her since.”

Harold’s footsteps echoed as he returned to his empty apartment. That night, the moon shone pale and cold, and Harold thought he heard the sky sigh.

Days became weeks. The weather stayed stubbornly perfect. Gardeners began complaining about dry soil. The river thinned. People forgot the smell of rain.

And Harold… Harold began to forget her face.

It was early April when he finally decided to stop waiting. Instead, he packed a small bag, left a note on his desk, and boarded the early train heading north — toward the kind of place where clouds still formed and rain still dared to fall.

He traveled through towns that had wind and drizzle, through valleys where fog curled over the fields. And in each place, he searched.

It was in a small coastal village, nearly two hundred miles from home, that he found her. She was sitting on a bench by the shore, sketching the waves. Her green coat was faded, and her scarf fluttered like an old memory.

When she looked up, she seemed startled.

“You found me,” she said.

“I think you left the city,” Harold replied, “and took the weather with you.”

She smiled sadly. “I had to go. The city’s skies were tired. Sometimes, you have to let the wind rest.”

As she spoke, the air shifted. Clouds rolled in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and rain. A single drop landed on Harold’s cheek.

It felt like home.