Whispers Of The Past

Chapter 11 When TheWind Stays Still

The rainy season arrived early in San Rafael.

The skies turned a soft gray, and the mango tree in Malliah’s garden stood still, its leaves heavy with water, its branches unmoving. The wind, which usually danced through the yard, seemed to have paused—like the world was holding its breath.

Malliah felt it too.

Not sadness. Not fatigue. Just stillness.

Her days had grown quieter. The writing center was running smoothly, her students were thriving, and her second book had found its way into libraries and homes across the region. Joshua was in Manila, overseeing a new project, and Lianne had returned to university for her final year.

For the first time in years, Malliah had no deadlines. No events. No urgent tasks.

She didn’t know what to do with the quiet.

She spent her mornings walking through the garden, listening to the rain tap against the leaves. She brewed tea, read poetry, and sat by the window watching the sky shift. She journaled, but not with urgency. Her words came slowly, like the wind—gentle, hesitant, unsure.

On July 3, the wind stopped. And I don’t know if I’m meant to wait or move. Maybe stillness is its own kind of motion.

She didn’t feel lost.

She felt suspended.

The quiet days stretched into weeks.

Malliah found herself moving more slowly—lingering over her morning tea, watching the rain slide down the glass, rereading books she hadn’t touched in years. She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t restless. But she wasn’t quite at peace either.

She began sorting through old boxes in the attic—journals from her teenage years, letters from her mother, photographs of Lianne as a child. Each item felt like a thread in a tapestry she hadn’t realized she’d been weaving.

One afternoon, she found a faded envelope tucked inside a copy of The Little Prince. It was the note Joshua had written her all those years ago:

“The quiet ones often have the loudest hearts.”

She sat down on the floor, the book in her lap, the note trembling in her hands. She remembered the way he’d looked at her back then—not with pity, not with curiosity, but with recognition. Like he saw something she hadn’t yet learned to see.

She wrote in her journal:

July 17 Stillness is not silence. It’s memory. It’s the echo of who we were, reminding us of who we’ve become.

She began visiting the writing center more often—not to teach, but to listen. Students came and went, sharing drafts, asking questions, sitting quietly beneath the mango tree. Malliah didn’t lead. She simply sat with them, letting the space speak.

One afternoon, a student named Rina approached her with a poem.

“It’s about my father,” she said. “He left when I was seven. I don’t remember his voice. Just the silence.”

Malliah read the poem slowly, then looked up.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “And brave.”

Rina blinked. “It doesn’t feel brave.”

“It is,” Malliah replied. “You gave shape to something that tried to stay invisible.”

Rina smiled. “I think I want to keep writing.”

Malliah nodded. “Then you already are.”

It was a Thursday afternoon when Joshua returned.

Malliah hadn’t expected him. She was sitting on the porch, a book open in her lap, the rain falling in soft sheets across the garden. The mango tree swayed gently, its leaves glistening. The wind had begun to stir again—just barely.

Joshua stepped through the gate, umbrella in hand, his shirt damp from the walk.

“I missed the quiet,” he said.

Malliah smiled. “It’s been very quiet.”

He sat beside her, placing the umbrella against the railing. For a moment, they didn’t speak. The rain filled the silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” Joshua said finally. “About movement. About how we’re always chasing something—goals, deadlines, clarity. But sometimes, the most important things happen when we stop.”

Malliah nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that too.”

He looked at her. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve paused,” she said. “And I’m learning that pause is a kind of change.”

Joshua reached into his bag and pulled out a small notebook. “I’ve been writing again. Not much. Just sketches. Thoughts.”

Malliah took the notebook and flipped through the pages. There were drawings of buildings, yes—but also trees, faces, fragments of poetry.

“You’re becoming a poet,” she teased.

“I’m becoming something,” he replied.

They spent the afternoon together, walking slowly through the garden, sipping tea, watching the rain. Joshua didn’t ask about her plans. He didn’t ask what she was working on. He simply stayed.

That night, Malliah wrote:

August 2 Stillness is not absence. Its presence. It’s the space where we remember who we are, and who we’re becoming. Joshua didn’t bring answers. He took a quiet. And that was enough.

The wind returned slowly.

Not with force, not with urgency—but with grace. It rustled the leaves of the mango tree, stirred the curtains in Malliah’s study, and whispered through the pages of her journal. It didn’t ask her to move. It invited her to begin.

She woke one morning with a sentence in her mind. Not a poem. Not a lesson. Just a truth.

Stillness is not the end of motion. It’s the breath before the next step.

She wrote it down.

Then she kept writing.

Her words came differently now. Less like declarations, more like invitations. She wrote about rest, about memory, about the quiet strength of women who carry entire worlds in their silence. She wrote about the mango tree, the writing center, and the students who had taught her how to listen.

She didn’t write for publication.

She wrote to remember.

One afternoon, she visited the writing center and found Rina sitting beneath the tree, notebook open, tears on her cheeks.

Malliah sat beside her.

“I don’t know how to finish this,” Rina said, pointing to a poem.

Malliah read the final lines, then looked at her gently. “Maybe it’s not meant to be finished. Maybe it’s meant to be felt.”

Rina nodded. “I think I just needed someone to sit with me.”

Malliah smiled. “That’s what the wind does. It doesn’t fix. It moves through.”

That evening, Malliah sat on the porch, the sky streaked with lavender and gold. Joshua called from Manila, his voice warm.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m still,” she said. “But I’m ready.”

“For what?”

“For whatever comes next.”

She opened her journal and wrote:

On August 12, the wind stayed still so I could listen. So I could remember. So I could rest. And now, it’s moving again. And so am I.

She looked up at the stars.

And she whispered, “Let’s begin.”