the woman could feel it returning.

from where she did not yet know, and perhaps this part of the story is not that important.

yet.

but, she had learned that everything and every, small thing carries some sort of message, some crumb of wisdom.

— to know this and ignore it, either messenger or message, had only ever caused her journey to be delayed in a wrangling of things that would seek to hold her captive.

the woman was tired of being held captive by the things she did not have the courage to name.

yet.

such a small word.

but i digress.

on this day, in this moment, the woman could feel something shifting its weight.

she leaned in closer with her owl-ears.

the listening was already a gift from her old body to the small child that lived inside her skin.

something was flitting in the undergrowth behind her eyes and the light was a thing that breathed.

the world, or rather, her world—the one inside of her, was beginning to feel familiar again, in a new way.

a small paradox: that being open to the aching within the story of her life allowed old, hidden things to return as new friends.

the breeze, delicious on her skin, the noise of life outside her window, the possibilities winking from the edge of stories.

‘pay attention’, she whispered into her own story.

something is returning on light, cat-feet.

and it breathes.