When The Air Shifted.

There was a stirring in the quiet—

not wind,

not weather,

but something older.

Something that knew her name,

though she hadn’t heard it that way in years.

It came just after the cold left the earth,

when the soil was soft enough to take back secrets.

When names once swallowed by time

rose again in petals and smoke.

He did not speak.

He did not need to.

She only noticed the way her hands stilled,

mid-task,

mid-thought—

as though someone had reached out from somewhere

without reaching at all.

There was a feeling.

Not memory.

Something older than memory.

The knowing of something unfinished

finally circling back.

A warmth,

not outside,

but behind her chest.

A kind of presence.

A kind of yes.

She threw the old things out without looking.

She let the light in where dust had settled.

She did not ask why the clock had paused,

why the birds sang off-beat that morning.

She just knew.

The veil had thinned.

And someone she once forgot

had always remembered.