I’m 65. I live alone—not because I have to, but because I want to. I’ve chosen solitude, and in it, I’ve found peace. No loud voices, no toys scattered around, no chaos of daily demands. Just quiet. My quiet. My rhythm. My life.
Every morning is the same. I wake up early, make coffee, and sit on my worn-out couch—the one that’s been with me for decades. The fiery red curtains sway gently in the morning light. The air in the room is still. The windows are closed. Yet the curtains move, softly, as if caressed by something invisible.
At first, I thought nothing of it. Maybe a draft. Maybe my imagination. But then I heard it.
A whisper.
— “Calm down…”
So soft, so delicate, it felt more like a breath than a voice. I froze. Not from fear—but from disbelief. There was no one in the house. I live alone. Always have.
But this wasn’t the first time.
A few weeks ago, I thought I heard footsteps in the hallway. The creak of floorboards where no one walked. I brushed it off. Maybe the house settling. Maybe I’m just getting old.
But this whisper—this voice—was different. It felt close. Real. Present.
This morning, after hearing it again, I stood up, heart pounding, and walked to the curtains. I pulled them aside, slowly, expecting nothing.
And then I saw it.
A handprint on the glass. Small. Childlike. Moist and fresh. It was on the inside of the window. I touched it. It was warm. My fingers trembled. I haven’t had children. Ever. Not by accident, not by circumstance. I simply never wanted them. And I never regretted it.
But that moment shook me to the core.
That evening, I sat quietly, staring at the walls. Something in the room had changed. The air felt… watched. Not dangerous. Just aware.
And then I spoke.
— “Who are you?”
No answer. Just a soft creak from the corner of the room. I whispered again:
— “What do you want?”
Silence. Then another whisper, almost like a memory brushing past my ear:
— “I’m here.”
The next day, I found something behind an old cabinet I hadn’t moved in years—a small wooden box, dusty and sealed. Inside was a tiny bronze toy soldier. Worn. Bent. Familiar.
But I don’t remember ever seeing it before.
And then, like a wave crashing over me, I remembered the dream.
Years ago, I used to dream about a boy. I never saw his face clearly. He was always standing at a window, holding a toy soldier in his hand. And he always said the same thing:
— “I’ll come back. I promise.”
I had forgotten about those dreams. Thought they were meaningless. Now I wasn’t so sure.
Since then, strange things continue to happen. Books fall from shelves. The radio turns on by itself, playing lullabies I’ve never heard before. Sometimes I wake up to the scent of something sweet and faintly familiar—like baby shampoo.
And every time, I feel that same presence. Not frightening. Not malevolent. Gentle. Like someone watching over me. Like someone who never left.
Maybe it’s a soul from another life. A child I never had but was meant to. Or maybe something older, deeper—someone I was once connected to, across time, across space.
Now, each morning, I place the toy soldier on the windowsill and sit quietly with my coffee. I don’t question it anymore. I don’t try to explain.
Because I know now: I’m not alone.
And just as the sunlight touches the curtain, I hear it again:
— “Calm down…”
So tell me… are you sure it’s just the wind behind your curtains?
