#19. Eligible.

The weather had been strange for weeks.
No patterns, only habits.
Chairs inching away from desks.
Books returning to the wrong shelves.
Time arriving early
and leaving before the second act.

She told no one.
Dressed for several climates at once:
boots and silk, umbrella and sunglasses.
Her bag heavier each day —
a receipt,
a feather,
a spool of black thread.

On Thursday, the sky opened.
No sound.
Just a quiet message folded into the light:
You have been eligible for healing for quite some time.

She didn’t move.
The air pressed gently against her coat.
Something in the distance,
unhurrying,
began to rearrange itself.