A small wind followed me home today.
Not a storm,
not even a breeze;
just a curious little draft
with leaves in its hair
and the smell of faraway hills
clinging to its coat.

It tugged at my sleeve
like a child wanting attention,
nudging me toward puddles,
toward dandelions,
toward things I’d forgotten
were worth noticing.

When I boiled the kettle,
it sat on the counter
and hummed along,
sending steam spirals
dancing like shy ghosts.
When I opened the window,
it refused to leave,
circling the room
as if inspecting the place
for hidden doors.

I asked it what it wanted.
It rustled the curtains
in a way that felt like laughter,
then settled on my shoulder
with the weight of a thought
I hadn’t had yet.

And for the rest of the evening
the house felt different;
lighter,
as if every corner
had been dusted with possibility,
as if something small and unseen
was reminding me
that the world is bigger
than the rooms we live in.

When I finally went to bed,
the little wind curled up
in the crook of the windowsill,
content,
as though it had chosen me
for reasons it didn’t need to explain.