Speaker 1: Hello there, I'm your storyteller for tonight. Take a deep
breath in through your nose and gently let it out.
Let your shoulders drop, let your hands grow still. You've
come here to rest, and you've come to a familiar voice. Tonight,
I'll take you somewhere quiet, somewhere warm. Imagine the air
of a summer evening, soft and full of life. A
chorus of crickets hums in the distance. The last golden
light of day brushes across the fields and wooden fences.
You're in Vermont, a place of maple trees, mountain roads,
and the calm rhythm of small towns. Here time moves
a little slower, and everything feels touched by memory. So
settle in, Let your body sink into the bed or couch,
Let your mind drift between the sound of my voice
and the stillness around you. This is a summer evening
in Vermont. The road finds you in the gentlest way,
like a ribbon set down across the soft hills, guiding
you along without hurry. Gravel whispers under foot, and somewhere
to your left, a meadow leans toward the evening. The
air is warm, easy, touched by the faintest sweetness of
cut hay and the green breath of maples. A fence
runs alongside the lane, its posts worn smooth by weather
and time, and beyond it, the last light spreads itself
thin across the tops of the grasses, as if the
day is laying a quilt over the land. Before sleep. Ahead,
the old house waits, the way a familiar face waits
at a train platform, not pressing forward, not calling, just
being there in its whole, patient self. White clapboard pain
little chalky at the edges, windows holding pale gold light
like cupped palms. The porch runs, the width of the
front boards, silvery with age, a rocker to one side
and a neat stack of firewood to the other. Even
though it's summer and the stove won't be kneaded. The
path bends past a lilac bush. The bloom's long gone now,
but the memory of their perfumed lingers stored in the
wood and screen door, where any one who has ever
arrived in June might still smell it in their mind.
You step up, and the porch boards answer with a low,
friendly creak, the kind of sound that tells you you're
in the right place. There's a faint click from somewhere
inside as the small kitchen clock marks another minute. Crickets
lift their song in the hedgerow, steady as breathing. In
the field beyond the house, a line of maples deepens
into silhouette, each leaf rimmed with a smear of gold
that fades breath by breath as evening gathers. The screen
door is light and old fashioned, and when you pull
it open, it speaks a gentle, springy note, a small
twang of wire and wood that might be the most
Vermont sound you can imagine if you've been here before. Inside,
the entrance is cool and shaded. There's the long, quiet
hallway and a set of stairs on the right, where
a runner softens each step. Boots sit on a mat
by the baseboard, waiting for morning. A straw hat hangs
by a nail on a little table rests a glass
jar with a handful of smooth, lake worn stones, their
colors muted like the inside of a seashell. You don't
need to turn any lights on, because the house seems
to glow of its own accord, a soft gathering of
what daylight remains in the kitchen beyond A window frames
the orchard. The trees stand like old friends, their branches
gentle and open handed. A kettle sits on the stove,
the kind with a handle that warms under your palm.
A loaf of bread cools on a wire rack. The
knife beside it holds a thin crescent of flower at
the tip, as if the baker just stepped out to
watch the sunset and will be right back. Each step
deeper into the house draws your shoulders, lower your breath longer.
Here is the deep sigh you came for. Here are
the simple things lining themselves up the way cows make
their own path back to the barn. A woven rug,
bar of wooden spoons, a calendar on the wall with
the day's crossed in pencil. A tiny brass bell near
the back door, its rope frayed by years of gentle
puls to cool someone in from the garden. The air
tastes faintly of vanilla and cedar, with a little curl
of something toasty, like a memory of morning coffee. Held
in the rafters. You drift to the sink and touch
the porcelain lip, cool and smooth. Beyond the window, the
orchard grass is lower, where a path is kept, and
at its edge a low stone wall draws a line
that nobody minds crossing. Fireflies begin to appear, the very
first few, spaced out like cautious ideas, small points that
blink in easy rhythm. A little breeze moves through the
open window and lifts the corner of a dish towel,
then lets it fall, as if the house itself is breathing.
In that movement, you feel your own chest loosening, your
hands settling, a little space opening between thoughts so something
quieter can pass through. You could stay inside, but the
porch calls again softly. You answer without words, stepping back out,
letting the screen door close with its gentle note. The
rocker faces west. You sit, and the wood except your
weight as if it was made for you, as if
the rocker has been keeping count of every evening like
this and knows exactly how to hold you. The grain
under your fingers is sat and smooth. The rhythm arrives
by itself, forward and back, a measure of time that
doesn't belong to clocks. From here, the road is just
a suggestion, a pale thread where the dust has settled
across it. The meadow hums with small life grasshoppers knock
through the stems. A hermit thrush gives a final liquid
phrase from the edge of the woods, fluted distant, a
sound of water made into music. Then the thrush falls silent,
and the crickets take the evening alone. A pick up
rolls past far down the hill. Muffled by distance, you
can almost smell the faint diesel of a hay burler,
carried on a slow swirl of air, paired with the
sharper green of broken stems from the afternoon's cutting. The
sun slips lower, and a long band of light moves
across the painted porch floor like a river of gold.
It thins, then breaks, and soon only the rails of
the ballusters carry a glow, and then even that is gone,
placed by a soft, even blue. You think of the
first time you came here, and the time before that,
and the times you only imagined you had. The house
holds them without effort. It doesn't sort them or weigh
them or judge them. It simply expands to include whatever
you bring, then eases your grip until you set it down.
Generations might have done the same hands on the same
rail feet on the same boards, faces tipped to the
same slices of sky. Somewhere on the far side of
the barn, a wind chime answers a breeze with a small,
friendly clink, the kind of note that tells you everything's
in its place. A moth taps the porch like glass
and drifts away, satisfied with the evening. The orchard at
the edge of the yard darkens to charcoal shapes, and
the old stone wall grows softer, its edges dissolved into
the open hand of night. If you look carefully, the
first stars reveal themselves in pairs, then in clusters, not
sharp but velvety, as if someone stitch them into the
sky with thick thread. High above, a line of cloud
receives the last of the daylight and holds it a
little longer, a thin ribbon that slowly cools from peach
to rose to blue. The rocker keeps its pace forward
and back. You can measure your breaths by it if
you like. In for the forward, out for the bag.
The night agrees, steadying you. There is nothing here that
needs deciding. The world has chosen its place. For the
next few hours, the house will keep its quiet, the
field will sing its cricket song. The maples will stand
guard shoulders together, leap to leaf. You are not asked
for anything but presence, and even that is optional. When
the air lives again, it brings the faintest trace of
the lake, clean and cool, as if someone opened a
door to a room made of water. It is far,
but not so far you cannot feel that broad body
of calm there in the west, flattening itself to mirror
the sky. The thought of it is enough, as if
the lake is a sleeping friend, close enough to hear.
If you speak softly, you begin to imagine the path
that leads there, past the stone wall, across the orchard,
through a stand of birch, where the trunks make a
pale congregation in the dusk, and onward to where the
ground drops gently and the cat tails begin. You won't
go tonight. Tonight is for arriving inside. The kitchen. Clock
knows another minute. The sound threads the evening like a stitch.
You rise and step through the doorway, letting the rocker
continue a moment on its own before it settles. The
floorboards are warm underfoot, storing the day on the counter.
A small bowl holds a handful of strawberries, and beside
it a spoon rests, still shining from a recent rinse.
You pour water into the kettle and set it on
the stove. The kettle's weight is a promise of small comfort.
You know where the mugs are without looking. You know
where the tee tin sits, the lid snapping softly when
you open it, the leaves inside releasing their gentle scent,
cut grass, faint honey, a memory of rain on a
summer porch. Steam comes slowly. You can listen to it
beginning if you lean close, a thrumming, then a little rattle,
like the kettle is clearing its throat to tell you
a story. You pour, and the water darkens with ease.
A ribbon of warmth rises and meets your face. You
take the cup to the porch and hold it in
both hands. The rim is smooth and reassuring. The heat
is steady. You breathe in and out, and your breath
blends with the quiet night, becoming part of the place,
until it is impossible to tell where you end. And
the evening begins when the first fireflies gather in earnest
along the grass. You let your gaze follow them. Their
lights do not ask for attention, They offer it and
then release it the way kind words are given. They
light the path that isn't a path, and the field
that isn't a map. And still, somehow your thoughts find
their way through. A dog barks once in the distance,
then decides that's work for another time. A door closes
somewhere with a soft finality. The town itself seems to
lower its eyes for sleep. You set the cup down
and rest your palms flat on your thighs. There's a
small ache that belonged to the day in the shoulders
or the lower back, and you can feel it loosening,
untying its own knot, as if the body remembers how
to do this without instruction. You give it time, one
more breath in a rhythm that makes sense, the slow
draw that gathers the scent of evening, and the slow
release that lays it down again. When you finally stand,
the house meets you at the threshold. You tilt the
porch light off, and the dark grows pleasing around you,
like velvet that gives, like a room designed for quiet thought.
The screen door makes its small note, and you answer
with a hand along the hall table, finger tips over
the smooth stones in the jar, each one cool and complete.
Up the stairs, each step a soft press, a small
yielding The runner holds your feet with a kindness you've
known all your life, even if you only now recognize it.
At the top, the room is held in gentle order,
a quilt folded back, a window lifted half way to
welcome the night on the dresser, a pitcher, and a
shallow bowl that no one uses, but no one would move.
The scent of clean cotton and cedar. The lake breath
finds you here, too, cooler. Now, guided by the quiet
corridor of the hall, you cross the room steady and
p praise your hand on the windowsill, worn smooth by
summer after summer of leaning out to listen. From here,
you can hear the maples speaking in their leaf language,
a low hush, full of reassurance. The road is only
an idea now, the field is a sound more than
a sight. The stars do their work without comment. The
household still the way an old friend holds a secret.
You draw the sheet up, the linen answers with a whisper.
The mattress remembers you with its soft giving. Your breath
lows as if it has reached the center of a spiral,
and there, without urgency, it turns. The kettle in the
kitchen releases one last cool tick as it settles. The
clock counts another minute, then another, but you have slipped
into a place below minutes. The porch rocker rests its motion,
held in reserve for some later evening. The orchard waits
in its gentle rose. The lake lies where it always lies,
a dark calm mirror under the paler calm of the sky,
and you, newly arrived, belong to it all. Arrival is enough.
Arrival is the whole story, and the beginning of the next.
The evening settles over the valley like a soft quilt
stitched with the hum of insects and the faint creak
of wood cooling after the heat of the day. The
house holds its silence with the patience of something that
has seen a hundred summers come and go. You are
back on the porch, and everything around you feels both
ancient and immediate, as if this exact hour has been
waiting for you to notice it again. The air has
that particular sweetness only Vermont can make a blend of grass, maple,
and far away rain. The hills still hold the day's warmth,
releasing it now in gentle waves that lift and fall
like slow breath across the meadow. The faint outline of
the barn leans into the dusk, its roof, catching a
last faint stripe of light. A breeze passes through the lilacs,
and the sound is like a quiet sigh, the kind
you make when something inside you finally unclenches. You sit
again in the old rocking chair. It meets you with
the same easy rhythm as before, a steady, unhurried motion
that asks for nothing. Each creek of the floorboards beneath
is its own kind of music, low, honest and reassuring.
The air moves through the screens in slow tides. You
can smell the tea you made earlier. It is cooled,
but still holds the faintest memory of warmth. Somewhere far off,
the church bell from the town center rings seven slow notes.
It doesn't rush. Each chime leaves a small silence behind it,
and those silences seem almost louder than the sound. You
remember that in this part of Vermont people set their
clocks by the bell, not because they need to, but
because it feels right, as if the hour itself should
be something shared. The road beyond the fence is quiet.
A single truck passes, its tires, whispering over the dirt.
You hear it long before you see it. First the
low growl, then the faint shimmer of head lights that
skim the edge of the trees. Then nothing. Dust rises,
hangs like smoke, and disappears into the evening. In the yard,
fireflies are beginning their patient work again. They blink without
pattern or plan, and yet somehow they make order out
of chaos. Each light feels like a tiny promise, proof
that the night is alive. But gentle, you let your
eyes move across the landscape and realize how much of
this country seems built to slow. The human poles, the
rolling fields, the steady song of the crickets, the horizon
that doesn't demand attention but rewards it. Every inch of
it whispers the same quiet truth. You are safe here,
You can rest here inside. A lamp clicks on, its
golden glow spills through the lace curtain, painting thin lines
across the porch. The scent of cedar mixes with something
faintly sweet, perhaps pie cooling on the counter, or maybe
just the ghost of one from years before. The house
feels awake, but peaceful, as if it's breathing along with you.
A chair scraped softly across the kitchen floor. The sound
means someone else's home. You don't turn right away, You
just listen. Footsteps, the familiar shuffle of slippers on wood.
A door opens and closes, then the soft clatter of
dishes being stacked. No hurry, no noise wasted. When the
screen door opens, you feel the air moved before you
see the figure. It's an older man, silver hair, suspenders,
linen shirt rolled at the sleeves. His face carries the
kind of calm you only get from living the same
way in the same place for a very long time.
He nods once, not out of politeness but recognition, the
kind of nod that says your back, It's good you came.
He sits in the chair beside you. No words for
a while, just the twin rhythm of two rockers forward
and back. The light dims a little more. The first
star shows itself above the line of pines. The man
takes a slow breath and says quietly, you pick the
right night. You answer, without speaking, a small smile, a
look toward the horizon. He understands that, as clearly as
any sentence, conversation in places like this doesn't need to
fill the air, it only needs to touch it. After
a while, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Funny thing about this porch, he says, When you sit
out here long enough, you start to think the world
still turning just for you. He pauses, looks out at
the field course. It's turn for everyone else too, But
somehow it feels closer here, like you can hear it. Hum.
You listen, There is a hum, not from machinery or traffic,
but from the living night itself, the insects, the wind
moving through the grass, the faint pulse of wings somewhere unseen.
It's a hum that feels like the Earth's heartbeat slowed
down to match your own. The man reaches into his
pocket and pulls out a small pocket knife, opens it
with a flick that's more muscle memory than motion, and
begins to shave thin curls of wood from a twig
he's been holding. Each curl falls like paper onto the
porch boards. The scent of pine rises, sharp and clean.
He doesn't look up as he speaks. My father used
to sit right there where you are every night after supper.
Never said much, just listened, said. If you listen long enough,
you start to hear the difference between silence and peace.
You think about that, the difference between the two. Silence
can be empty, but peace is full, like air right
before rain, or the pause after a song ends. What
you hear now is peace. The man folds the knife
closed and sets it on the rail. You'll hear the whip,
or will soon, he says, always the same pair they've
been nesting out past the orchard for years. He's right.
A few minutes later, the sound begins, a long, rising
call that repeats impatient rhythm, echoing across the fields. It
feels like part of the night architecture, something essential to
its balance. You sit until the crickets soften, until the
stars multiply, until even the air seems to move slower.
The man stands, stretches, and gives a small nod toward
the kitchen. Pie is still warm. He says, as if
that's all the reason you'd ever need to get up.
You follow him inside. The screen door closes behind you
with its familiar spring sound. The kitchen light wraps around
you both. The pie blueberry maybe, sits on the counter,
dark and glossy under the lamplight. He cuts two slices,
places one before you, and the smell is pure summer,
sweet fruit, butter, and sugar brown to perfection. You eat
in silence, each bite carrying its own kind of memory.
The house ticks gently, expanding and contracting with the night air.
The window is opened, and the sound of the whip
poor Wills drifts in like a lullaby written for no
one in particular. When you finish, the man rinses the
plates and sets them in the rack. He doesn't look
up when he says, you can always tell what kind
of day you had by how quiet the evening feels.
You let the words hang there. They feel like they
belong to the room. You look once more out through
the window, the yard glowing faintly under starlight, the porch
chair still moving a little from where you left it,
as if it's remembering the rhythm. The man turns off
the lamp. The dark fills the space in one smooth motion.
He gives you another small nod and heads toward the hall,
the floor creaking softly beneath him. You stay a moment longer,
listening to the pulse of the place, the whip poor wills,
the kettle's faint tick, the whole world slowing itself down
so you don't have to. When you finally move, it's
without sound. You step back to the porch, lean on
the rail, and breathe in the Vermont night, a mix
of wood, smoke, meadow, and memory. The stars have settled
into their patterns now, as if they've found where they belong.
You close your eyes, and in the stillness between heart beats,
you realize this isn't a place you visit. It's a
place that welcomes you back each time you remember how
to arrive. And so the porch holds you, and the
night keeps you until even thought begins to drift. Morning
in Vermont begins without effort. It doesn't rise or announce itself,
It unfolds. The first sign is the hush before the light,
when the sky takes on a color you can't quite name,
not gold, not gray, but something between the two, like
the quiet thought before a word is spoken. The hills
hold that stillness for a long moment, before letting the
day begin. You wake to the scent of maple and
wood smoke. The old house is warm, patient, alive in
its slow rhythm. From downstairs comes the soft clatter of dishes,
the scrape of a chair, and the faint sound of
the man humming the same tune he must have hummed
for decades. The air smells faintly of coffee and toast.
When you move, the floor greets you with the small,
familiar groan of age. At the window, the view opens
into light, the orchard glistening with morning dew, the fence
catching a thin line of sun, and beyond that a
dirt road curving toward the village. The road looks like
a story waiting to be retold. By the time you
reach the porch, the air is shifted, cooler, now, with
a hint of promise in it. The man is already outside,
sitting with a newspaper folded neatly beside him. He nods
toward the horizon. Town'll be waking up soon, he says.
You'll want to see it. He doesn't need to tell
you twice. The path to the village winds through meadows
where grass leans under its own weight. Bees move lazily
between clover blossoms, and dragonflies flash blue and green in
the sun. The sound of running water grows loud as
you near the small bridge that crosses a narrow stream.
The bridge is old, wooden, its beams worn smooth by
rain and footsteps. Beneath it, water slips over stones, making
the kind of music that never grows old. Beyond the bridge,
the town begins to appear, not all at once, but
in fragments. The bell tower first rising from a cluster
of maples, then the general store, its signs swaying gently
in the breeze. A few pickup trucks parked at angles
that suggest everyone knows everyone else. The faint sound of
laughter from somewhere near the diner. You follow the smell
of coffee and cinnamon to the heart of the town.
The diner's screen door opens with a sigh, and the
world inside greets you with warmth and chatter. There's a
rhythm to it, the scrape of forks on plates, the
clink of mugs, the murmur of easy conversation. The waitress
behind the counter looks up and smiles like she's been
expecting you morning, she says, in a tone that stretches
the word into something almost musical. You look like you
need something strong. You nod, and she paus. The coffee
is dark, rich, alive, with the taste of early hours.
You find a seat by the window, and outside the
day begins in small human gestures. A boy on a
bicycle tosses newspapers with the precision of someone who's been
doing it since spring. Two old men in overalls lean
on the tailgate of a truck, discussing the weather as
if it's a sacred ritual. A woman sweeps the porch
of the flower shop, pausing now and then to wave
at passing cars. There's no hurry in any of it.
The town breathes together. Every person seems to move in
quiet coordination with the next. The baker setting out loaves,
the clerk unlocking the post office, the bell ringing at
half past eight. You sip your coffee, slowly, watching, listening.
There's a music here that doesn't need melody, the sound
of work, of laughter, of lives long settled into their shape.
You realize that in Vermont people don't chase time. They
keep it like a trusted companion. When you leave the diner,
the waitress says, come back if you get hungry. You
know she means it. Outside the sun has climbed just
high enough to carst shadows across the street. Eat. The
warmth touches your shoulders, soft and kind. You wander past
the general store. The window display is simple, jars of honey,
fresh apples, and a small wooden sign that reads locally
made with care. Inside the air smells of pine shelves
and old paper. The owner, a woman in her sixties,
looks up from behind the counter. Morning. She says, you're
not from around here, are you? You smile, not exactly.
She nods, satisfied. Well for monts kind to those who
don't rush it. Stay a few days. It'll start to
feel like it's known you forever. You buy a small
jar of honey, just because it feels right. She wraps
it in brown paper and ties it with string. It's
from the miller farm up by the ridge. She says,
there be sleep lade, smart creatures. You thank her. Step
back outside, and for a long moment just stand there,
jar in hand, sun on your face. The sound of
a screen door closing somewhere down the street. A breeze
stirs the flags along the store front. The air is
bright with the scent of lilacs and freshly cut grass.
The town square opens a head framed by elm trees.
A few children chase each other around the fountain. Their
laughter rises, echoing lightly against the brick walls. A dog
trots past, tail wagging, as if it's got somewhere gentle
to be. You sit on a wooden bench beneath the
shade of an elm. The bench bears a small brass
plate with a name you don't recognize, some one who
lived here, someone who loved this place enough to leave
a piece of themselves behind. The bell tower rings again,
this time for nine. A flock of pigeons rises, circles once,
then settles on the roof tops, as if nothing has changed.
You watch the world move in slow rhythm, not forward
or backward, but simply as it should. You think of
the porch of last night's stillness, of the lake waiting
somewhere beyond the hills. Everything here feels connected, each scene
flowing quietly into the next. After a while, you rise
and start back down the lane. The path home feels
different now, not because it's changed, But because you have
you notice the details you missed before. The faint scent
of wild mint growing by the fence, the shimmer of
dew still clinging to the grass, the soft hum of
bees drifting between blossoms. When the house finally comes into
view again, it looks as if it's been expecting you.
The porch waits, the rocker still angled toward the field.
You set the jar of honey on the kitchen table
and pour a glass of water from the old pitcher. Outside.
The day hums with life, distant laughter, a hammer striking wood,
a tractor somewhere up the hill. All of it blends
into a single, steady pulse, the rhythm of small town life, unhurried, honest, whole.
You lean against the porch rail and close your eyes.
The wind carries the smell of maple and clover. The
sound of the bell fades across the hills, replaced by
the easy song of crickets waking early. Somewhere behind you,
the man's voice called from inside, Calm and shore headed
to the orchard. Later, you smile thinking about it. He
nods once. Good things worth seeing out there. If you
take your time, You glance toward the trees at the
edge of the property. Their leaves shift in the light,
silver and green, whispering something you almost understand. And as
you stand there, letting the day stretch out before you,
it becomes clear. This town, this house, this slow unfolding
of hours, it isn't just a place you've come to.
It's a rhythm you've remembered how to hear. The afternoon
unfolds in layers sunlight, bird song, and the hush of
wind moving through the high grass. The air has that
lazy warmth only midsummer can hold, thick, with the scent
of clover and pine resin somewhere in the distance, and
a lawnmower drones far enough away to sound almost like
a memory. You walk beyond the porch, across the gravel
path through the orchard, where the grass grows uneven and soft.
Beneath your shoes. The apple trees stand in patient, rows,
their leaves trembling like their whispering secrets to one another.
A few unripe fruits hang low, pale green and faintly waxy,
swaying in rhythm with the breeze. Bees trace circles in
the air, their sound isn't sharp, It's round, full, steady,
a living hum. The man's voice follows faintly from the porch.
Stay on the left, past the wall. There's a view
you'll want to see. You lift a hand in reply,
and keep walking. The stone wall marks the edge of
the orchard. Its stones are round and warm from years
of sun, stacked without mortar, each one resting in quiet
cooperation with the next. Moss fills the gaps like soft stitching.
When you touch the top, the texture surprises you, smooth
in places, rough in others, cool even in the heat.
Beyond the wall, the land opens wide. A meadow spreads
towards the foot of the green mountains, a slow roll
of color and motion. Wild flowers scatter themselves in loose clusters,
Queen Anne's lace, purple aster, tiny yellow buttercups. Dragon Flies
flit low over the grass, wings flashing like shards of glass.
There's a path here, faint but certain, pressed down by
deer hoofs and the boots of generations who walk to
the same ridge. You follow it, the grass brushing your
legs each step, stirring the sweet, dry scent of summer.
The sound of the crickets grows louder as the trees
fall away behind you. For a while, you walk without thought.
The mind grows quiet when the world around it refuses
to hurry. Your heartbeat matches, the pace of your steps steady,
even the air feels clean, stripped of every unnecessary thing.
At the far end of the meadow stands a single maple,
older than any fence or road near by. Its branches
spread wide like open arms. Beneath it are small wooden bench,
leans slightly to one side, weather worn, silvered by time.
You sit, and the wood creaks and greeting. From here,
you can see almost everything, the orchard behind you, the town,
a faint cluster of roofs and steeple beyond the fields,
and further still, the blue shimmer of Lake Champlain between
you and the horizon. The landscape rolls in gentle rhythm,
every line soft, every color forgiving. You sit awhile listening.
There's always something to hear if you let the silence breathe.
The whir of grasshoppers, the distant murmur of a tractor,
the soft percussion of leaves shifting overhead. It all weaves
into one continuous sound, the low heartbeat of the countryside.
A memory rises, unbidden, but welcome another summer, another afternoon.
Maybe you were younger then, maybe some one beside you
pointed out the same hills, said that's where the sun
set slowest. You can't place their face now, but you
remember the warmth in their tone, the certainty that beauty
was another reason to pause. A shadow drifts over the grass,
a hawk gliding low. It circles once twice, then glides
toward the forest, its wings barely move, carried by invisible hands.
You follow it until it disappears behind the trees, leaving
only stillness in its wake. The air shifts again. Clouds
drift across the sun, softening the light into gold. You
breathe in, slow and full, and feel the warmth settle
deep inside your chest. There's no need to speak. The
landscape seems to be speaking for you. A small wooden
fence lines the far edge of the field. Beyond it,
a dirt track leads down toward a cluster of birches.
Their white trunks stand like quiet sentinels. You walk that way,
your fingers brushing the tall grass, each seedhead leaving a
faint tickle along your palm. The birch grove hums with
its own quiet language, leaves flickering silver and green, light
dappling the path in moving shapes. Somewhere nearby, water trickles.
You follow the sound until you find the sauce, a
narrow brook slipping between smooth stones, shallow and clear. The
sunlight catches on its surface, scattering patterns over your hands.
You kneel and dip your fingers in. The water is
cold enough to surprise you, sweet enough to make you
laugh softly under your breath. You cup a little and
take a sip. It tastes like minerals and rain, and
the kind of purity no bottle could ever hold. When
you stand, droplets slide down your wrist, glinting before they vanish.
You wipe them on your sleeve and keep walking along
the stream. The ground slopes gently upward, leading to a
rise where wildflowers thicken again. Butterflies dance between them, small
deliberate movements, as if they're reading a code written in air.
At the top of the hill, you pause. The view
spreads open once more, wide and slow. The lake in
the distance flashes silver under the lowering sun. Shadows stretch
long over the fields. You hear the faint ring of
the church bell again, once twice, three times, carried by
the wind across miles of open air. You sit in
the grass, the blades bending easily beneath you. The sun
warms your skin, and the breeze cools it again, a
soft balance that feels almost deliberate. You close your eyes
for a few moments you sense everything, the heartbeat of
the land beneath you, the weight of the sky above,
the invisible threads connecting the house, the town, the meadow
and you. You don't know how long you stay like that,
Time stops asking to be counted. Eventually you rise, brushing
the bits of grass from your hands. The day has
tilted toward evening. The light has taken on that deep
honey tone that makes every edge softer, every shadow forgiving.
You follow the path back through the meadow. Bees return
to their hives, their hum thick and low. The orchard
glows ahead, its branches catching the last of the sun.
The man is there, sitting on the porch steps, waiting.
He raises a hand when he sees you. Did you
find it? He asks you. Nod yes, He smiles, eyes
crinkling good. Most people walk right past it. Takes the
right kind of quiet to see it proper. You step
up onto the porch. The boards are warm beneath your feet,
still holding the day, He pours two glasses of cold
lemonade from a pitcher. You take one, the condensation slick
against your palm. You sit side by side, watching the
field settle into dusk. Fireflies return, patient and unhurried. The
first whip or will cools from somewhere beyond the orchard,
answered a moment later by another. Neither of you speak.
There's nothing left to say that the land hasn't already
said for you. The horizon fades from gold to violet,
The air cools, the glass in your hands sweats and drips.
Somewhere far away, the faint sand and of water reaches you,
the same brook, the same endless voice of ament itself,
carrying the story forward, whether you listen or not. And
you think, sitting there beneath the quiet weight of the sky,
that maybe this is what peace really means, not the
absence of sound or motion, but the perfect balance of both,
the field breathing, the wind answering, the world holding steady
just long enough for you to belong. Evening slides in
gently slow as honey. The world turns from gold to blue,
and the air cools enough to wake the skin. The
man finishes his glass of lemonade, sets it beside the step,
and nods toward the open field. You'll want to see
the lake before the dark takes it, he says. Go
past the birches, keep left at the stone fence. You'll
hear it before you see it. You take the path again,
this time with the first sounds of night rising behind you, crickets,
the low hum of frogs, the sigh of wind in
the orchard leaves. The sky deepens to violet. The light
lingers along the tops of the hills like an ember
refusing to die. The air changes as you near the water.
It smells cleaner here, lighter, pine, sand, and something metallic
and fresh. You can hear the soft percussion of small
waves against the shore, rhythmic patient. It's the same rhythm
as a heartbeat, slowed and steady. The trees open and
the lake appears wide, still enormous in its calm, Lake
Champlain stretches to the horizon, its surface catching the last
fragments of daylight like scattered glass. The far shore is
barely visible a darker blue against the fading sky. You
stand at the edge for a while, letting your eyes
adjust to the quiet, expanse. The sound of the waves
feels like breath itself. Inhale, exhale forever. A single boat
glides far out, its oars, dipping in slow time. Each
movement leaves a thread of ripples that spread and vanish
without sound. A small wooden dock reaches into the lake
like a thought extended. Its boards are old, silver, gray,
slightly uneven. You walk out onto it. The wood flexes
softly under your weight, a reassuring give. You stop near
the end and sit your legs dangling just above the surface.
The water below is black now, but not empty. It
holds the reflection of the sky, the first stars, a
thin sliver of moon, the faint blush of clouds drifting east.
You dip a hand into it. It's cold, clean, perfectly smooth.
When you lift your fingers, drops full like pearls, back
into the stillness. Somewhere down the shoreline, someone is burning wood.
The faint scent of smoke reaches you, mixed with pine
and lake air. It doesn't spoil the stillness, it deepens it.
You imagine a campfire near a cabin, quiet voices around it,
maybe laughter, soft enough to sound like wind. Behind you,
the hills darken to silhouettes. The trees form a wall
of soft shadow. The first frogs begin their chorus, not
all at once, but one after another, as if they're
testing the acoustics of the night. You take long breath.
The cool air fills your lungs with something close to gratitude.
Everything in this place seems to work in its own
slow logic, the wind, the light, even your own thoughts.
It's a rhythm too gentle to rush. You look across
the water and think of how many people have watched
this same lake at dusk. Farmers, travelers, children chasing fireflies,
lovers in quiet boats, each of them seeing the same reflection,
each leaving nothing behind but a small piece of calm.
The moon rises, pale and deliberate, its light spreading over
the surface until the lake looks alive again. You watch
as the ripples catch the silver, each wave like a
thread of silk being pulled across the dark. The dock
creaks beneath you, steady as a metronome. You lean back
on your hands, feeling the warmth of the board, slowly
drained away into the air. The night smells of damp
wood and cool stone. For a long time, nothing happens,
and that feels like the point. Then faintly a sound
footsteps on gravel. You turn and see a figure approaching
the man from the house, his outline softened by the
blue light. He stops near the edge of the dock,
not quite stepping on. Didn't mean to interrupt, he says,
voice low. Just wanted to make sure you found it.
I did you answer. It's beautiful, he nods. Been looking
at it near every day for seventy years, still finds
something new each time. He pauses, looks over the water.
When I was a boy, I thought the lake had moods.
Sometimes it smiled, sometimes it sulked, but it never lied.
You smile at that, and to night. He studies the
water for a moment. To night it's listening. The wind shifts, then,
carrying a small ripple across the lake. It runs beneath
the dock, nudging the posts, whispering against the wood. You
feel it vibrate through your shoes, gentle fleeting. The man
hears it too. He nods, satisfied, told you he steps
on to the dock and lowers himself beside you, knees
cracking softly. From his pocket, he pulls a small tin
of mints and offers you one. The gesture feels timeless,
simple enough. Together, you sit in silence, watching the world
cool into night. The last of the daylight leaves the hills,
and the stars multiply, unhurried and sure reflections shimmer, shift reform.
After a while, he speaks again. Used to bring my
wife down here every Sunday evening. We'd sit where you're
sitting now. She'd say. The lake made her feel like
time was folding, like everything that ever happened was happening again,
only quieter. He smiles faintly, the kind of smile built
on memory, not pain. Never really understood what she meant,
but I think maybe I do now. You don't respond.
You don't have to. The moment doesn't ask for words.
The frogs fall quiet for a few seconds, as if
to listen to Then they begin again, softly, endlessly. The
man stands after a time, stretches and looks toward the
distant house. Its windows glow faintly against the dark. I'll
head back. Lanterns lit if you need it. You nod,
I'll stay a little longer. He places a hand briefly
on your shoulder, light certain, and walks away, his footsteps
fading into the grass. You turn back to the lake.
The moon has climbed higher, brighter, now silvering every ripple,
every wave. The light gathers at the edge of the dock,
shimmering like spilled mercury. The world feels suspended, between sound
and silence, between motion and stillness. You think of everything
you've seen to day, the town, the orchard, the meadow,
the path. Each part feels connected, like threads woven into
a single, quiet tapestry. When you close your eyes, the
rhythm remains, the waves, the crickets, the pulse of the
earth beneath the boards. Somewhere behind you, a screen door opens.
The faint sound carries all the way across the field.
Then it closes again. The wind moves once more, and
the water answers. You stay until you can no longer
tell where the lake ends, and the night begins. By
the time you leave the lake, night has fully arrived,
not sudden, not sharp, but like a slow tide rising
until it's everywhere. The air carries that deep coolness that
settles after long days of sun, and every sound feels
amplified in the stillness. Your footsteps along the dirt path
are soft, but even they seem too loud for the
hush that has fallen over the fields. The way back
to the house feels different. The path is silver in
places where moonlight breaks through the branches, then fades again
into shadow. Crickets fill the air in a thousand tiny
threads of sound, weaving a fabric of life that stretches
from the meadow to the hills. The night hums, it breathes,
it waits. When you reach the orchard, you pause. The
trees look otherworldly under the moon, their leaves glinting faintly,
their trunks pale and steady. Somewhere within the rose, a
small movement flashes one, two, three points of light rising
and falling, then another and another, until the entire orchard
flickers with soft golden sparks, fireflies. They drift between the trees,
as if tracing invisible music. Their glow appears, lingers, fades,
then blooms again somewhere else. You watch for a long
time without moving. The light seem to follow a rhythm
that your heart begins to match. Each pulse feels slower, softer,
more deliberate. A breeze moves through the orchard, carrying with
it the scent of apples and damp earth. It brushes
across your face, cool and familiar, like an old friend's touch.
The fireflies shift with it, gathering in brief constellations before
scattering again. You step forward, deeper into the rose. The
ground is soft beneath your shoes, the grass whispering at
your ankles. Every few steps, a branch brushes your shoulder,
dropping a bead of moisture from the evening air. The
sound of the cricket swells and recedes, blending with the
low murmur of the distant lake. When you stop again,
the world feels suspended, not silent, but perfectly balanced. A
faint hoot echoes from the woods, followed by the answering
rustle of leaves. Somewhere close, A deer moves, careful and unseen.
You realize how alive the night is, how full it becomes.
Once the day's noise has vanished. You sit beneath one
of the apple trees, its trunk solid and cool against
your back. Above the branches spread wide, heavy with small
fruit that glints faintly in the moonlight. Between them, the
fireflies continue their quiet dance, tiny lanterns in slow motion.
It's here, in this moment that you feel something change,
not around you, but within the day's thoughts. The small
edges of memory, the quiet ache of time, They loosen,
fall away, replaced by something simpler, presence, breathing stillness. You
remember the man's words from earlier. You'll hear the whippoor
wills soon, as if answering. The sound begins, one clear,
rising call, then another farther off. Their rhythm is steady, hypnotic,
like two clocks ticking in gentle disagreement. The sound fills
the orchard, echoing off the trees, mixing with the hum
of the crickets and the soft electric silence between. It's
a sound that belongs here, wild yet comforting, both lonely
and kind. You close your eyes and listen, letting it
wash through you like water over stone. Somewhere behind you,
in the direction of the house, a porch light glows
faintly through the trees. You can see its warmth between
the leaves, steady, constant, a beacon for whoever is still awake.
You think of the man again, may be already asleep
in his chair, the newspaper folded neatly on the table
beside him. You imagine the clock ticking in the hall,
the kettle cooling on the stove, the slow rhythm of
an old house breathing through the night. The fireflies drift
lower now, closer to the grass. You can see their
reflections in the dew, tiny flashes along the ground. The
whole orchard feels alive, pulsing gently, like the earth itself
is dreaming. You stay there until the whip poor wills fade,
until even the crickets seem to quiet their song. Only
the wind remains, moving through the trees in long, measured sighs.
It sounds like the lake again, that same slow whisper
that has followed you all day, patient and steady. When
you finally stand, your legs feel light, as if the
earth has been holding you. You brush the grass from
your hands, look once more at the fireflies, and whisper
a quiet thank you, not to any one in particular,
but to the night itself. The walk back to the
house is short. The air feels cooler now, the smell
of cedar and wood smoke stronger as you near the porch.
You climb the steps carefully, every board beneath you answering
with its low, familiar creek. The lantern still burns by
the door, its glass fogged with warmth. You lift it
gently and set it beside the railing, where its light
spills softly on to the floorboards. For a moment, you
just stand there, half in shadow, half in gold. The
world feels impossibly large and yet entirely within reach. From
somewhere far beyond the orchard, thunder rolls, distant, lazy, like
a giant turning in sleep. The wind picks up again,
bringing the scent of rain that hasn't yet begun. The
leaves shiver in response. The first cool drop lands on
your arm. You step inside just as the rain starts
to fall. It comes slow at first, then steadier, the
sound like a thousand small hands tapping gently on the roof.
The window panes glisten, and the air fills with that deep,
grounding smell of summer rain on earth. You leave the
light on low, slip out of your shoes, and sink
into the nearest chair. The house feels alive. Wood expanding
pipes sighing, the wind whispering through every seam. The sound
of the rain merges with the last hum of cricket,
the faint beat of drops on the porch roof, And
as you sit there, listening, breathing, existing in the quiet
center of the storm, you realize how complete the night feels.
Every sound belongs, every moment fits. The fireflies still glow outside,
their light softened now by the rain, They blink slower, steadier,
like hearts finding rest. The rain lasts most of the night,
sometimes heavy, sometimes gentle, always rhythmic. You sleep lightly, waking
once to the sound of water running along the gutters,
then drift off again to the soft percussion on the roof.
By morning, the air is washed clean, cool and sharp,
with the scent of wet earth and pine. When you
come downstairs, the man is already awake at the kitchen
table with a cup of coffee, a small lantern still
burning beside him, though the daylight has begun to gather
through the windows. He looks up, nods and gestures toward
the counter. Coffee's there, cream in the blue pitcher. You
pour a cup and sit across from him. The quiet
between you is easy, unhurried outside, the orchard glistens, every
branch hung with silver drops, every leaf trembling faintly in
the morning wind. After a while, he says, you ever
notice how the rain leaves everything softer, not just the ground,
the air too, even the sounds. You nod, it's like
the world, exhales. He smiles at that, then leans back
in his chair. My father used to say, rain keeps
the stories alive, said, Every drop that hits the ground
wakes one up. You can't see him, but they rise
up like mist, wander around awhile, then go back to
sleep when the sun comes out. He takes another sip
of coffee, eyes half lidded. He used to tell us
stories by lantern light, back before we had steady power
out here, nights just like this one. You could hear
the rain, smell the wood smoke, and the only light
in the whole house came from that one flame. He
nods toward the lantern beside him. Its brass edges are tarnished,
its handle worn smooth, same one still works fine. You
study the flame. It's small but alive. It's light, moving
in slow rhythms. The glow brushes the man's face tracing
every line of age, every shadow softened by memory. What
kinds of stories you ask, he smiles faintly. The kind
lived somewhere between nostalgia and peace, all kinds. Some about
the lake fishermen who swore they saw lights under the water,
others about the mountains travelers who lost their way and
found something else instead. But the ones that stuck with
me weren't the big ones. They were the small ones,
the ones about people who never left, who lived simple
and quiet and knew the land by heart. He pauses,
sets the cup down carefully. My father used to say,
a story doesn't need to be big to last, It
just needs to be true. In the quiet places, you
let the words hang there. They seemed to settle into
the air the way dust does in a shaft of light.
The rain eases outside, replaced by the soft drip of
water from the eaves. The sky brightens to a pale silver.
The man stands and reaches for the lantern, turning the
knob until the flame steadies. Come on. He says, let's
take it to the porch. You follow him. The porch
boards are still damp, the air heavy with the scent
of cedar. He sets the lantern on the table between
the chairs. Though the morning light is more than enough.
Now it feels less like a light and more like
a presence, a reminder. The two of you sit, and
he begins to speak again, voice low, unhurried. There was
a boy lived down near the creek. This would be
oh sixty years ago now, Quiet kind kept to himself,
always building things from scraps. His father was a farmer.
His mother baked for the church. One summer, the boy
decided he was going to make a boat, not a
big one, just enough for him to float out onto
the lake. You listen watching the lantern's reflection flicker in
the glass. He worked all July all August out back
of the barn. Folks laughed, said it wouldn't hold, said
the boards were too thin, the pitch too weak. But
he didn't stop. When he finally carried it to the lake,
the thing did float, sat on the water like it
belonged there. He rowed out a little ways, turned back
toward shore, and just sat there watching the sunset. Didn't
say a word to anyone. The next morning the boat
was gone. Folks figured it sank. But you know what
my father said, You shake your head, he said, Sometimes
the best things we make aren't meant to stay. They're
meant to carry us far enough to understand why we
built them. The man's voice softens. That boy left a
few years later, went west. I think, never came back.
But every now and then someone swears they see a
small wooden boat drift past a dusk. No oars, no
one in it, just moving with the current, heading somewhere calm.
You don't ask if he believes it. You don't need to.
Some stories aren't for belief. Therefore, remembering the lantern, flame
trembles as the breeze touches it. You can smell the
faint smoke of the wick, the hint of oil. The
man reaches out and steadies the glass with his hand.
That's how stories work, he says quietly. You keep the
flame safe, but you don't hide it. You let it move,
You let it find where it belongs. You sit there
a while longer, watching the sky shift from gray to blue.
The rain has stopped entirely. Now birds begin to move
in the orchard, their calls cutting small holes in the silence.
The man leans back, eyes half closed, as if he's
listening for something. Only he can hear. You look out
over the wet fields, the drops still cling to the grass,
glinting like tiny mirrors. Everything feels renewed, freshly written. When
the man finally speaks again, it's almost a whisper. Lantern
light always told the truth better than daylight. Days too sharp,
night lets the truth breathe You. Glance at the lantern.
Its glow has faded, now barely visible against the growing morning.
Yet somehow it feels stronger, not in brightness but in meaning.
You rise, stretch, and take one last look at the
hills beyond the orchard. Mist curls at their feet, rising
slowly the way the man described stories waking after rain.
He stands too, lifting the lantern by its handle. The
light flickers, catches on the metal rim, and then steadies.
He nods once toward the field. Every night has something
worth remembering, he says. You just have to sit still
long enough to hear it. You step down from the porch,
the grass cool beneath your feet, and look back once.
As the wind brushes the flame for a heart beat,
it glows brighter, then settles again, constant and sure, as
though it understands the rhythm of every story. That's ever
been told beneath its light. By late afternoon, the mist
has lifted, leaving behind a world rinse. Clean Sunlight drapes
over the orchard like a blanket of silk, each droplet
on each leaf turning into a spark of gold. The
air feels new again, soft, damp, alive, the kind of
air that carries the scent of every good thing earth wood,
and the faint sweetness of apples warming in the sun.
You spend a while walking the edge of the property,
listening to the faint buzz of bees returning to their work.
The man is somewhere in the garden, trimming branches, humming
to himself. It's a low tune, the kind that feels
older than any words that might fit it. The day
moves slowly, shadows lengthen, but no one seems to mind.
Even time feels content to linger. By the time the
light turns amber, you can hear the faint clang of
a bell. Well, dinner's ready inside the kitchen glows. The
sun cuts through the window and lands on the table
where two plates wait. Steam rises from a cast iron
pan on the stove. The smell is rich and steady,
roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, something buttery. The man turns from
the counter, drying his hands on a towel. Didn't make much,
he says, though the table looks like a feast. You
sit opposite him, and for a while you eat without talking.
The only sounds are the clink of forks, the occasional
shift of wood as the house settles. Every bite carries
the taste of the land outside, the crisp sweetness of carrots,
the salt of butter churn nearby, the faint tang of
something grown and pulled and cooked within a mile of
where you sit. After the plates are cleared, the man
fills two mugs from a kettle and hands you one.
The tea is strong and fragrant, steam curling into the
golden air. Camermeal, he says, picked last week. Help slow
things down, you smile. I think everything here already knows
how to slow down. He chuckles softly. That's why it works.
The kettle ticks as it cools outside. The evening light thickens,
pooling in the corners of the room. You can feel
the quiet settling deeper into the walls. Not silence, but
something warmer, like the hum of a story half remembered.
He gestures toward the living room. Come on, fire's probably out,
but we can fix that. The hearth sits at the
far end of the room, built from rough fieldstone. A
few embers still glow faintly at the base. He crouches,
adds kindling and strikes a match. The flame catches fast,
licking the logs with soft orange light. Soon the fire
begins to talk, not loudly, but with that calm crackle
that draws you closer without asking. You take a seat
in the old arm chair near the window. The cushion
dips under your weight, shaping itself to you. The fabric
smells faintly of cedar and smoke. The man settles across
from you, resting his mug on the arm rest. The
firelight paints the room in shifting golds. Everything within it
seems alive, the gleam of a brass clock, the shine
of the wooden floor, the gentle movement of a curtain
stirred by the evening breeze through the window. The first
stars appear soft as candle flames. The man leans back,
eyes half closed. Used to have half the town in here,
some nights back, when winters were heavier, and folks still
needed a place to warm up. People would bring pie,
maybe a fiddle. We'd sit up till near midnight, telling
stories or saying nothing at all, didn't matter which The
fire did most of the talking anyway. You imagine it,
the room filled with laughter, the sound of boots stamping
snow from the porch, the smell of spice and smoke.
The warmth seems to echo from the walls themselves, stored
from every night like that. He looks at the flames
and adds quietly. Funny thing, though even when the room
was full, it always felt the same, peaceful, like everyone
who stepped in knew they could stop at tending to
be anywhere else. You sip your tea. It's still hot,
floral and grounding. The warmth spreads through you in waves.
The man stands and pulls a wall blanket from the
back of the sofa, handing it to you without a word.
Gets cool after dark, he says, and returns to his chair.
You drape it over your legs. The fabric is heavy,
hand woven, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and lavender. You trace
your fingers over the pattern, small diamonds stitched in uneven rows,
each one slightly different, imperfect, but perfect in its honesty.
The fire grows quieter, deeper, its voice lowering to a slow,
steady murmur. Outside, the whippoor wills begin again. The sound
threads through the open window, like a lullaby that belongs
to no one and everyone. You sleep upstairs again tonight.
The man asks you, nod if that's all right. He
waves a hand. House has plenty of room. Besides, every
room hears better when someone's breathing in it. That line lingers.
It sounds simple, but it carries weight, like something he's
said before to people long gone. To keep the air alive,
the room drifts into stillness again. The only movement is
the firelight, the way it plays over the man's hands,
catching the small scars and creases earned from years of work.
He seems at peace with all of it, the quiet,
the waiting, the endless cycle of light and dark that
defines this place. At some point, you realize you haven't
spoken in minutes, maybe longer. The need to fill the
silence has vanished. You listen instead to the soft ticking
of the clock, the whisper of wind through the eaves,
the deep, slow breath of the house itself. When the
man finally stands, he moves quietly, setting his mug in
the sink, adjusting the lantern wick by the door. You'll
find an extra blanket in the dresser. He says, nights
can surprise you this time of year. He pauses in
the doorway, one hand on the frame. I'll be up
early if you're awake. The porch faces the sunrise. You nod,
and he smiles faintly before disappearing down the hall. You
stay awhile longer. The fire burns lower, until only the
softest glow remains, the light just enough to hold the
shadows back, the warmth lingers wrapping around you, patient and kind.
When you finally rise, you take the lantern with you.
Its light sways as you move through the hall, brushing
over old photographs, faces caught in sepious smiles, eyes lit
by the same Vermont sun. Upstairs, the bed waits just
as you left it. The sheets are cool, the air
faintly scented with cedar and rain. Through the window, the
orchard glimmers under starlight. You place the lantern on the
bedside table, Its flame small but steady. The fire downstairs
pops once a final echo. You lie back the wall,
blanket drawn to your chin, and the warmth settles in deep,
not just from the room, but from the quiet acceptance
that fills it. The last thing you hear before sleep
takes you is the sound of the wind moving through
the orchard, slow and even, like the breath of a
world perfectly at rest. You wake some time after midnight
to the sound of stillness. It's the kind of quiet
that has shape, thick, soft, alive. The rain has long
since passed, and the world outside your window glows faintly
silver beneath the moon. For a moment, you stay where
you are, half dreaming. The sheets are cool against your skin,
the wool blanket heavy and comforting. You can hear the
faint creak of the house, the wood expanding, the beams sighing,
the gentle, rhythmic breath of something old but kind. Then,
from somewhere outside comes a sound, small, steady, familiar, the
breeze moving through the orchard. It's not calling you exactly,
but it invites you. Rise without thinking, pull on a sweater,
and lift the lantern from the table. Its flame flickers. Awake,
patient and warm down the stairs. The house greets you
with shadows and memory. The air smells faintly of wood,
smoke and rain. On the table, the man's newspaper sits folded,
a pen resting across it, like punctuation to a day
that's already complete. You open the screen door and step outside.
The night greets you in full, cool, open, endless. The
moon sits high above the hills, a white coin pressed
into a sea of deep blue. The orchard gleams faintly,
each leaf silvered by light. The air is heavy with
scent wet grass, apple bark, and the faint sweetness of clover.
You walk slowly, lantern in hand. Its glow stretches ahead
of you in a small sir enough to see the path,
but not enough to break the night. Fireflies move beyond
its reach. Brief sparks that appear hover vanish. The path
is soft from the rain, Your steps leaving quiet impressions
somewhere far off of frog croaks answered by another. Between them,
the crickets hold the rhythm, never faltering. You reach the
low stone wall and stop. The world beyond it is
wide and still. The meadow rolls toward the horizon, a
field of muted silver and shadow. Above it, the sky
blooms with stars, countless, precise, unmoving. You tilt your head
back and feel their weight. There is something eternal in
a Vermont night. It doesn't rush, it doesn't demand. It
simply is. Set the lantern on the wall and lean
against the cool stone. Its surface holds the memory of
the day's warmth, faint but alive. The light flickers, and
the shadows stretch and shift, merging with the shape of
the field. For a long time, you just breathe. The
air fills you in slow, measured waves. Each inhale carries
the smell of rain and distant pine. Each exhale seems
to carry a small weight away somewhere behind you. The
house stands quietly, its windows dark now, its roof outlined
against the sky. You can almost sense the man sleeping inside, steady,
at peace. The house feels like it's breathing with him.
The world feels larger out here and smaller at the
same time. Every sound travels clearly, the call of an owl,
the whisper of wind through grass, the faint rustle of
your own sleeves. Everything belongs, nothing collides. You lift the
lantern and continue walking along the edge of the orchard.
The light dances across the trunks of the trees, revealing
brief flashes of moss, bark, and shadow. The ground is uneven,
but your steps find the rhythm, easily guided by instinct
rather than sight. After a while, you come to a
break in the trees where the meadow meets the woods.
The brook you found earlier still runs there, faint but steady.
It sound like a thread of silver woven through the dark.
You crouch beside it, setting the lantern on a rock.
The flame reflects in the water, scattering into dozens of
tiny suns. You dip your hand into the current. It's
cold again, sharper now. The chill climbs your wrist, reminding
you of the world's endless patience. This water flowing long
before you, long after You listen to it, and it
feels like the night is whispering in a language you
once knew. The breeze shifts, brushing your face. You look
up toward the far hills. Mist clings to them in ribbons,
pale and thin. Beyond, the sky deepens, not darker, but deeper,
as though you could step into it. You pick up
the lantern and turn back toward the house. The path
feels shorter now, each step lighter. The orchard hums softly
with sleeping life. A rabbit darts across the trail, pauses,
then disappears into the rush. You smile without meaning to.
When you reach the porch, the boards welcome you again
with their gentle, low creak. You set the lantern down
on the railing and let its flame steady itself for
a while. You just stand there, looking back toward the field.
The fireflies have returned, hundreds now scattered across the grass,
pulsing in gentle rhythm. It looks like the earth is
breathing light. The stars above answer in their slow, infinite
way between them. The dark feels alive, warm, infinite. You
sit in the rocking chair, pull the blanket from the
arm rest and wrap it around your shoulders. The night
folds around you like a second skin. You can still
hear the brook faintly, the crickets, the wind moving through
the apple leaves. The rhythm is perfect, each sound and
echo of another. You rock gently forward and back, forward
and back, breathing matches the motion. The warmth from the
lantern and the coolness of the night, find balance on
your skin. You think, for just a moment, that the
world feels exactly as it should, Nothing missing, nothing waiting,
only the slow pulse of a night that knows you're awake,
but doesn't mind. When the breeze shifts again, you rise,
take the lantern and step inside. You turn down the
wick until the light softens to a glow, barely there
a whisper of gold against the dark. Upstairs, the room waits.
You place the lantern by the window, its flame flickering
against the glass. The orchard outside shimmers faintly, the horizon
glowing with the first hint of dawn far beyond the hills.
You lie down again, the blankets still warm from your shoulders.
The air through the window is cool and sweet, and
as your eyes close, you realize the walk wasn't about
seeing anything at all. It was about hearing the world
remember you, and letting it lull you gently back to sleep.
The night deepens until sound itself feels like a memory.
Even the crickets have slowed, their rhythms softer, now broken
by long pauses that stretch like breaths between dreams. The
house holds the silence in its wooden frame, floorboards, beams,
and windows all in quiet agreement. A thin band of
moonlight lies across the foot of the bed. It shifts slowly,
almost imperceptibly, as clouds drift past. Outside. You lie awake
for a moment, not restless, just aware. The air is
cool against your skin. Somewhere far away, water drips from
the eaves, steady, patient, the echo of the rain that
came before. You rise bare foot and cross the room.
The boards are smooth, cool beneath your steps. The lantern
still burns low on the table beside the window. You
turn the wick just enough for the flame to grow,
and the room responds in gold and shadow. The walls
breathe the silence hums outside. The orchard glows faintly under
the moon, leaves whispering. Though no wind moves. You can
see the line of the old stone wall, silvered, its
surface scattered with drops of dew. Beyond it, the meadow
lies utterly still, not asleep exactly, but in a kind
of suspended thought, as if the world itself has paused
to listen. You lift the lantern and move quietly through
the hall. The house gives the smallest creeks, not complaints,
but acknowledgments, the kind of sounds that belong only to
places long loved. At the bottom of the stairs, you
stop for a moment, hearing another rhythm layered over your own.
The slow tick of the clock in the kitchen. It's
a soft sound, almost hidden beneath the hush. You walk
toward it, each tick carrying you closer to the center
of the quiet. In the kitchen, the air smells faintly
of cedar and the ghost of yesterday's tea. The moonlight
filters through the curtain, drawing a pale square across the floor.
On the counter sits the kettle, its metal faintly gleaming.
You touch it, and it's cool, asleep like everything else.
You pour a glass of water, the sound small and
round in the stillness. When you drink it tastes like
time itself has slowed inside the glass. The man's lantern
sits by the door, unlit. Beside it, his boots rest
neatly on the mat, still damp from the rain. There's
something comforting in their quietness, the simple evidence of another life,
steady and known. You set your glass down, lift your lantern,
and open the screen. Door outside. The night has become vast.
The air is motionless, the stars impossibly sharp. The moon
has climbed higher, scattering light across the orchard. The fireflies
have gone, now replaced by something deeper, a dark that
feels complete rather than empty. You sit on the porch steps,
lantern beside you. The flame sways, slightly reflected in the
glass panels. Every sound carries far in this stillness. A
lone frog by the brook, a small branch settling, the
faint hum of the power lines down in the valley.
It's not loneliness, it's belonging, stripped of everything except quiet.
You lean back against the railing and close your eyes.
The night air wraps around you, cool but gentle. Every
muscle seems to release its last bit of tension, as
if your body understands something your thoughts haven't yet caught
up to. When you open your eyes again, you notice
how light the stars are here, not white, but soft
amber and blue. The constellations hang low over the hills.
You can see their reflections faintly in the distant lake,
a silver shimmer that moves when you breathe. You think
of all the nights before this one. The rain the fire,
the lake at dusk. The quiet meals the lantern stories,
each of them has folded into the next, until they
feel like pages of the same dream. The man's words
return from earlier that day. You can always tell what
kind of day you had by how quiet the evening feels.
You realize this is what he meant. There's no weight
left in the quiet, only calm. You close your eyes
again and listen harder, past the crickets, past the wind,
past even your own heart beat. Beneath it all, there's
another sound, a low vibration, the earth itself turning. You
can feel it in your bones. Steady, old kind. It's
the same rhythm that hums through every story told here,
the rhythm of waiting, of belonging, of returning home. The
lantern flickers once twice, then steadies again. Its glow casts
long shadows over the porch, and for a moment the
world feels perfectly balanced, one side light, one side dark,
everything in harmony. Somewhere in the distance, a barn now calls.
Its voice floats across the orchard like smoke, then fades
into the hills. The sound lingers long after it's gone,
leaving behind a silence that feels sacred. You draw the
blanket closer around your shoulders. The warmth mixes with the
night air, creating that perfect equilibrium between comfort and cool.
The fireflies might return soon, or maybe the first birds will.
It doesn't matter. The night is whole as it is.
When the clock in side strikes two, its soft chime
rolls through the house and across the porch, a reminder
of time, but not a command. It marks the hour,
and then the quiet folds back over it seamless. You
stand slowly, take the lantern and turn toward the door.
The flame wavers with your movement, casting small circles of
light on the floorboards. Inside, the air is warmer, still
scented faintly with cedar and tea. You turn down the wick,
watching as the flame shrinks into a single trembling star.
The room darkens, but not to black, to a gentle,
honest shade of gray. When you climb the stairs, you
don't feel tired exactly. You feel complete. The bed receives
you as if it has been waiting all this time.
The sheets are cool again, the pillows soft. You lie
still facing the window, watching the last movement of clouds
drift past the moon, and as your breathing slows, you
realize the stillness of midnight isn't absence at all, is
the sound of the world holding itself together just long
enough for you to rest within it. The first thing
you notice is the light, not sunlight exactly, but something softer,
filtered through memory. It glows at the edge of your thoughts,
painting everything in the faint gold of nostalgia. You are
still in the room, the same quilt, the same window,
yet something has shifted. The air feels weightless, time is thinned.
You're neither fully awake nor asleep, somewhere in between, that
gentle space where dreams begin, not as visions but as recollections.
Outside the world wholes its breath. The night has cooled completely,
the crickets now reduced to a few tired voices. The
orchard glimmers faintly beneath the moon, each tree swaying with
the rhythm of sleep. You watch the branches move and
feel as though they're waving to another version of you,
one who's walked this same ground. Before you close your eyes,
and the sound of the breeze folds into something older.
A whisper of laughter, footsteps on gravel, the creak of
a porch swing years younger than it is now. Then
you're there, standing barefoot on the same porch, only brighter, newer.
The boards still smell of fresh varnish, and from the
kitchen comes the scent of peach pie cooling on the sill.
Somewhere nearby, a radio hums a tune that no one's
played in decades. You know this place, this moment, even
though you've never lived it. It's Vermont as it might
have been fifty years ago, quieter still, somehow more tender.
Down the road, a child rides a bicycle too big
for him, his laughter, chasing after the wind. A woman
in a gingham dress hangs sheets on a line that
ripples like sails. The air hums with warmth, with presents,
with time that doesn't rush. You walk down the porch steps,
the grass soft beneath your feet. The air smells of
lilac and sun, warm stone. A truck rattles past in
the distance, its driver tipping his hat and greeting. Every
sound is familiar, not remembered, but recognized, like the lyrics
to a song you've always known. You follow the road
toward the lake. It's earlier in the day here, late afternoon.
Maybe the sky burns blue, the kind of blue that
never truly existed outside of summer memories. The water glitters
alive with sunlight. Children splash near the shore, their voices
carrying across the air like wind chimes on the dog sits.
The man younger now, perhaps the age you are in
waking life. He's mending a fishing line, his hat tipped low.
When he sees you. He doesn't look surprised. He just smiles,
nods once, and says, you took your time. You sit
beside him. The boards are warm, the lake alive beneath them.
The waves slap gently against the wood, patient as breathing.
He speaks without looking at you. Funny thing about summer,
he says, when it's here, you think it'll last for ever.
Then one day it just folds up and goes quiet.
But the air never forgets. It keeps the sound of it,
the color, the shape you look out over the water.
The horizon blurs, the sunlight wavers, The scene feels fragile,
like a photograph caught between fingers. He continues, voice low.
That's what memory really is. It's not holding on. It's
what the world keeps when you're not looking. You turn
toward him, but his face is already shifting. The edge
is softening into light. The dock fades beneath you, the
sky folds into itself, and soon all that remains is
the sound of the waves, slower, now deeper, echoing through
the dark. You open your eyes and the room returns.
The lantern glows on the bedside table, its wick turned low.
The window is cracked, letting in the faintest scent of rain.
The quilt is pulled to your chest, the pillow cool
beneath your cheek. For a moment, you can't tell which
world feels more real, the dream or this one. Both
carry the same piece, the same warmth. You sit up
just enough to look outside. The moon hangs low, beginning
its descent toward the western ridge. The orchard below is
still bathed in silver, the same trees, the same field.
Yet it all feels touched by that other time, as
if you'd walk through a door in your sleep and
brought a piece of it back. You rest your hand
on the window sill. The wood is smooth, worn by
years of others doing the same thing, watching remembering, waiting.
The feeling that passes through you is not longing its continuity.
You are part of a rhythm older than yourself, a
chain of quiet moments that reach backward and forward at once.
Somewhere in the distance, the whip poor wills call again,
faint and sure. Their voices thread through the air, weaving
past and present into one endless song. You lie back down,
eyes half closed. The quilt settles over you, heavy and kind.
The sound of the breeze outside matches the rhythm of
your breathing. The dream lingers soft around the edges, refusing
to fade completely, And in the space between waking and sleep,
you understand. Fora moon isn't just a place on a map.
It's every summer that ever promised peace, every sunset that
ever forgave the day. You exhale slowly, The room hums
with quiet. The lantern's flame bows lower, and as the
dream folds itself back into night, you let go, not
to forget, but to become part of the stillness that
remembers everything. The house has fallen completely still, no creak,
no wind, no sound except the slow and certain rhythm
of the night itself. The lantern on the bedside table
has gone out, leaving only a faint glow from the moon,
soft as breath and water. The orchard beyond the window
no longer stirs. The leaves hang motionless, silvered by the
last light of the night. The air carries the scent
of rain, of quiet soil, of the long summer hours
that came before. Everything holds its place, the field, the trees,
the walls, Your own heart beat, all steady, all one,
and where in the distance a single owl calls once more,
then stops. Silence follows wide and unbroken. You turn slightly
beneath the blanket, The fabric cool against your skin. The
pillow fits the curve of your head as if it
remembers every small detail. The soft weave of the sheet,
the faint weight of air on your hands, settles you
further in the space between thought and dream. Memory drifts
like mist, the lake, the porch, the sound of the rain.
The old story is told by lantern light. They move
through your mind in slow fluid rhythm, joining one another
until they become a single, endless moment. There is no
direction now, no past or next, only the hush of
Vermont at rest, the breeze that slips through the window,
is gentle and cool. It carries the smell of pine
and dis eastern water. It fills the room and then
leaves again, a soft reminder that even stillness has motion.
Somewhere below, the clock in the kitchen gives one quiet tick,
then another. Its sound folds into the rhythm of your breathing,
into the pulse that drifts further from waking. The walls
seem to hum, not with noise, but with presents, the
kind of quiet that wraps around you and holds you
in place, the kind of quiet that tells the body
it is safe to release. Outside. The moon lowers toward
the hills. It's light dims, not gone, but softened into blue.
The stars follow, fading one by one. The world does
not wake, it exhales. You feel the air grow warmer
around you, not with daylight, but with rest. The orchard
will glow again soon, but not yet. The house will
fill with the smell of coffee and bread again, but
not now. For this moment, all that exists is this breath,
this bed, this night, holding you like water holds a stone.
The crickets have stopped, the frogs are quiet. Only the
faint sound of the brook remains whispering beyond the field.
Even that sound grows slower, softer, until it becomes the
same rhythm as your heart. There is nothing left to do,
nothing left to see, only the slow drift into peace.
Let the air move through you, Let the weight of
the day dissolve, Let the choiet take the shape of sleep.
And as the last hour of night passes, unseen, unhurried,
you are already gone, Floating deep within the stillness, Weevermont
keeps its dreams