Dewdrops on the Windowsill

The First Light of Day One

Long golden streaks were created on the wooden floor as the early sun softly filtered through the gauzy curtains. Wrapped in a handwoven blanket that still had a subtle scent of rose water and cedar, Eleanor stirred on the couch. The whisper of time continued to gnaw at her old bones, but the room's quiet comfort eased the pain.

Outside, dew clung to everything like tiny crystal prayers, and the world was shrouded in a thin layer of fog. The dewdrops lined up neatly on the windowsill, catching the light and creating little rainbows on the wall. As though they were little emissaries from a world that had passed on without her, Eleanor studied them.

This was Bramble Lane's old residence. After so many years, after lengthy chapters of life had been written and sealed with tears and sighs, she had come back here. She had returned for a feeling, like an incomplete sentence reverberating through the passageways of her mind, rather than a cause.

She and Thomas had attempted to etch their names into the windowsill as youngsters, and the scratches were still visible. Uneven but unyielding, "E + T" is carved into the wood. Fifty-two years have passed since then. Her lips quirked into a tiny smile as she touched it with her finger.

Day 2: Dust and Coffee

The fragrance of dirt and a gentle shower greeted the second morning. In that cathartic way that only nature could provide, rain had always given Eleanor the impression that the planet was gently crying. She put on the kettle, went barefoot across the cool floor, and searched the old cabinets for coffee.

The house had been empty for years, but someone had cleaned it and put enough food on the shelves to survive for a while. It might have been her niece or a friendly neighbor who had made the return possible. Simple things have always appealed to Eleanor. Silence, a blanket, a cup, and a kettle. Now she only needed it.

The fog on the window mixed with the steam as she sipped her coffee. She leaned near the window, where the dewdrops were still present, though a bit less now.

Her voice was a touch raspy from lack of use when she remarked out loud, "I used to think they were fairies." "I was a girl once. that they arrived and gave the droplets messages.

Of course, no one responded. Silence, however, has a voice of its own. Eleanor had become proficient in it as well.

Day 4: Attic Reminiscences

She chose to skip a day rather than forgetting. Here, time enfolded itself. It was not necessary to memorize or number the days. They resembled pages strewn about in the breeze.

She went into the attic on the fourth day.

Yes, there are cobwebs and dust, but there are also time capsules. boxes with faded ink labels. She gasped when she saw a shoebox with blue ribbon, old linens, and a broken mirror. She untied it with shaking fingers.

She discovered letters within. dozens of them. The paper smelled of lavender and ink, folded beautifully, and yellowed at the edges.

They came from Thomas.

She had forgotten how poetic he could be, or maybe she had decided to forget. The summer before he departed for college, he had written her these letters. Most she had never answered. She had been arrogant and furious at the time. According to the stories she had heard, love should never ask you to wait.

In one, he wrote, "I would have waited forever." However, I will not ask you to.

He had not returned. He was already married. had kids. had a respectable life as far as she was aware.

Nevertheless, here she was. In the home they had once hoped to own.

Day 6: A Guest

The wind changed on the sixth day.

A gentle, tentative knock on the door was heard. Eleanor's heart jumped a lot, which shocked her. No one had arrived without first messaging for years. However, nobody was aware of her presence. Or so she believed.

She was a girl, perhaps nine years old, wearing a yellow raincoat with daisy-shaped buttons.

The girl brushed her damp hair away from her eyes and murmured, "Hello." "Are you the woman who moved into the house that whispers?"

Eleanor gave a blink. "A house that whispers?"

That is the term we use. When the wind blows, the windows always chatter. It sounds like voices.

Startled by the sound of her own laughter, Eleanor laughed. "I guess I am."

The girl smiled. "My name is Maggie. Two homes down is where I reside. Could I occasionally sit on your porch?

With a loving heart, Eleanor answered, "You can sit wherever you wish."

Eleanor allowed Maggie to chat about school, her dog, Pretzel, her conviction that cats could understand French, and how she grieved her grandmother who had died last winter while they drank cocoa and watched the rain that day.

Eleanor did not say much. However, her heart, which had not heard laughter in a long time, listened.

The Letter That Was Never Sent on Day 9

Eleanor had found her rhythm by now. tea in the morning. strolls in the afternoon. Evening letters.

She had indeed begun writing back. To Thomas.

She was aware that he would never read them because he had died ten years ago and his obituary was folded into one of the letters in the box. But something inside her relaxed when she wrote to him. It was like she was finally allowing the wound to breathe by removing an old bandage.

On the ninth day, she penned a different letter. Carefully folding it, she set it beside the dew on the ledge.

"Perhaps they will carry it if fairies are still around," she muttered.

She was not insane. Just old-fashioned, childish hope.

Day 12: The Wall's Cracks

There was an odd sense of melancholy on the twelfth day. As she sipped her tea beside the window, Eleanor observed the world passing by in shades of light blue and grey. Everything was reduced to a dream by the dense fog, which muffled light and sound.

A break in the wall caught her attention.

It was new, but it was not big. Or maybe old and just discovered. Like pain that remains hidden until it is revealed.

She put her hand on it.

Like her, the mansion was aging. But it held up well.

similar to her.

Day 14: When Maggie Was Absent

That day, Maggie did not show up. Not the next one. Irrationally annoyed by her own concern, Eleanor found herself looking at the road more than once. What if the girl was not feeling well? What would have happened?

She could not find out. She had learned over the years to let people come and go and not to get involved. Her heart tugged in a different way now, though.

Just in case, she made scones. cleaned the porch.

Day 16: A Note from Daisy

A daisy-shaped sticker was used to affix a note to the door on the morning of the sixteenth day.

I apologize for not attending! I have the flu. Return shortly. Get me some cocoa, please.

The note was pushed to Eleanor's chest.

She reasoned that not all hearts beat audibly. In echoes, they beat. In times such as these.

Day 18: A Smile and a Dawn

Day eighteen was a golden day.

Today, there were larger dewdrops on the windowsill, and one of them caught the sun so precisely that it reflected a tiny prism onto Eleanor's fingers. Her body felt lighter than it had in years, and she grinned.

She took a seat and wrote in her journal:

"I anticipated that returning would be painful. It would pierce like glass, that remembrance. It is softened instead. similar like warm water on weary feet.

The squeal of bicycle wheels reached her ears.

Before the girl could knock, Eleanor opened the door.

Day 21: A Goodbye, A New Beginning

The house had changed by day twenty-one. It breathed once again. The scent of cocoa and cinnamon replaced the dust in the air. Laughter was now a common visitor.

That morning, Eleanor took her time packing her bag.

The time had come.

She had assured her niece that her absence would not exceed three weeks. She needed to return to her therapy. Physicians who scowled at her caprices. However, they were unaware that this had been a pilgrimage rather than a detour.

On the table, she put a message.

"Pay great attention to whoever finds this house next. Stories are whispered through the windows. Permit them. Additionally, do not remove any dewdrops that may be visible on the windowsill. They are more than water. They are yearning for remembrance.

Maggie held a bouquet of wildflowers as she stood at the gate.

"Will you return?" she said in a low voice.

Tucking a strand of Maggie's hair behind her ear, Eleanor leaned down.

She advised me to keep in mind that love always leaves something behind if I don't. All you need to do is listen for it.

Years Later: Epilogue

The Bramble Lane house is still there.

It is said to be haunted, although subtly, by the sound of laughter, the aroma of lavender and tea, and the sensation that someone has just left the room.

There are also dewdrops on the windowsill every morning, regardless of the season.

Some claim that it is simply condensation.

Some people are not so certain.