It was as if subtly under the branches, or beneath the leaves as they fell, there was a current of air, and on that current of air, there was a whisper. And the whisper seemed only for him.
He listened harder, and yes he made out words saying,
"will you run to me?", not urgently, just ever so gently, in the kindest way imaginable. Yet still with a strength that only something meaningful can take on.
Only something thats absolutely right and destined to be holds that feeling. Somehow he knew this.
He stood, still hearing those whispers, uncertain of footing and of whether to begin to do what they were questioning of him. There had been so much to take in these past few months, he was barely able to recognise his own voice at times, let alone that of a stranger.
Yet was this a stranger? her prescence, and he was certain it was a she, seemed oddly familar, like they had met before or been the same people just in different circumstances, maybe even in different worlds.
He could not recall her, or place her in his memories. Not yet. But maybe if he saw her he would remember.
Times he had taken similar steps daunted his heart, and he felt himself retract in protection of what may be to come.
Yet life as it stood, was no more or less painful he reflected, for the absence of another. And he was being given this feeling as if a gift.
How could he not be open to what may come from it.
He had begun to realise lately, that he needed to move, somehow, he was unsure exactly how. But maybe, just maybe, unusual as it was, this direction would prove to be a beginning.
For where else had he to find a beginning but in the here and now.
And so it was that he began, that day, beneath the falling of leaves and cover of branches, to listen to this whisper that called to him alone, and to step with real hope, towards a feeling of belonging and of his heart fulfilled.