Whispers in the Wind

Reading Time: 9 minutes

Rowan was convinced January had taken her existence as a personal offense. It wasn’t enough for the month to be cold—it had to be vindictive, slinging icy winds that wormed into her coat and hissed, “This is why people move to Florida, genius.” Her heeled boots clumped on the frozen sidewalk, each dull step a reminder of her dull life.

“This is the year I get it together,” she muttered, though even the words felt stale. “New year, new me. Big changes—like maybe learning to drink my coffee before it needs microwaving three times.”

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sheen of an icy puddle stretched across the sidewalk ahead, glinting under the dim streetlight. Rowan narrowed her eyes, calculating the distance like an Olympic hopeful about to attempt the long jump. She bent her knees slightly and launched herself forward, coat flapping.

Her toe clipped the edge. Cold water surged into her boot, jolting her foot awake like a drill sergeant with a bullhorn. She skidded forward, arms windmilling to avoid a wipeout.

“Perfect,” she growled, standing stiffly as the frigid water seeped into her soul—or at least, it felt like it. She shook her foot futilely, droplets scattering onto the ice like some ridiculous one-woman slapstick routine.

And then she heard it. A calm, almost omniscient voice cut through the biting wind: “Start by organizing your kitchen.”

Rowan froze mid-foot shake, her soaked boot now hovering in the air. Her head jerked toward the sound, but the street was empty. Bits of trash swirled in the dim light, skittering around her as the wind howled past. She turned in a slow circle, heart thudding. Still nothing.

She straightened, muttering under her breath. “Fantastic. First, frostbite, and now delusions. January’s really outdoing itself this year.”

The voice had been… steady, confident, and maddeningly reasonable. It wasn’t like the usual chaos in her head. This was different. But different or not, she refused to be spooked by a sentient weather pattern. She stomped her soggy foot against the pavement to emphasize her defiance and resumed her trudge home.

Back in her apartment, Rowan peeled off her soaked sock, muttering about the cruelty of puddles and the sheer audacity of the wind. Her kitchen loomed in the background, its cluttered counters practically sneering at her.

But the words lingered, soft and irritating, like a song stuck in her head. Start by organizing your kitchen.

She eyed the counter warily. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done something ridiculous to stop herself from overthinking. With a sigh, she rolled up her sleeves and started.

The whisk joined its long-lost spatula friend in the drawer. The spice jars were shuffled into alphabetical order. The pantry was cleaned with ruthless efficiency, revealing a shameful stash of instant ramen and enough tea to host a Victorian social season. By the time she wiped down the last shelf, the kitchen looked like it belonged to a person who had her life together—or at least someone who had seen a Pinterest post about pretending to.

Rowan stepped back, crossing her arms and nodding in reluctant approval. There it was again—that flicker of satisfaction, that rare, elusive sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a small victory against the tide of mediocrity.

She leaned against the counter and sighed. “Well, wind, I hope you’re happy.”

The kettle whistled as if to say, You’re welcome.

The next evening, the wind had lost some of its bite, though Rowan still tugged her scarf tighter as she meandered home. The kitchen incident from the night before clung to her thoughts like static electricity. She had organized her cabinets—an act so wildly out of character that she half-expected her friends to stage an intervention if they ever found out. And yet, she couldn’t deny the odd little thrill of it. For once, she’d done something that felt… intentional.

“But I’m not getting carried away,” she muttered, side-eyeing a stray leaf that skittered across her path. The wind didn’t answer. Good. She could handle weird kitchen advice, but if the weather started assigning her chores regularly, she was moving south.

Her boots crunched against salt and grit left over from the last snowstorm as she turned onto her block. She was halfway to her apartment when a chipper voice broke the quiet, practically dripping with relentless optimism.

“You must scale the mountain of your potential!”

Rowan stopped dead, her breath fogging in the cold air. She stared at the empty street ahead of her, every muscle in her body tensing.

“Excuse me?” she said aloud, though her voice barely carried over the sound of a passing car.

“The mountain of your potential,” the voice repeated with unearned cheer. “You’ve got to lace up your boots and start climbing!”

Rowan blinked, then tilted her head toward the sky like she was scolding the universe. “Right. Because nothing says ‘aspirational’ like frozen toes and altitude sickness.”

The voice chuckled, as if Rowan had just shared the most delightful inside joke. “That’s the spirit! A little humor goes a long way when tackling big goals.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Okay, so we’re doing this again. Fantastic. Are you the same wind spirit from last night, or do I have a subscription to some sort of motivational breeze?”

“I’m here to help you unlock your potential,” it said brightly. “Let’s start by visualizing your goals! Picture the summit of your dreams—the career, the hobbies, the relationships you want to cultivate. What’s at the top of your mountain?”

Rowan’s eyebrows shot up. “Right now? A takeout menu and a couch. Maybe some fuzzy socks. Is that ambitious enough for you?”

The voice paused, as if recalibrating. “Baby steps are important,” it conceded. “But don’t sell yourself short. You have the power to transform your life, one step at a time.”

She snorted, resuming her walk. “I’ll take it under advisement, O Wise and Windy One.” But as she trudged onward, the words needled at her. Transform your life. One step at a time. It wasn’t that she believed the voice, exactly—the whole situation reeked of a sleep-deprived breakdown waiting to happen—but it stirred something in her all the same.

By the time she reached her apartment, Rowan had already resolved to… well, resolve something. Maybe not climb a mountain, but perhaps a small hill of self-improvement? As she unlocked her door and stepped inside, the warmth enveloped her like a hug.

“All right, wind,” she muttered, shedding her coat. “I’ll think about it. But if you start telling me to buy hiking gear, we’re done.”

The next day, Rowan’s commute home started as uneventfully as one could hope. The streets were slick with ice, but the air was crisp and oddly invigorating, making her almost enjoy the walk. Almost. She focused on carefully placing each step, determined to avoid another soggy sock incident.

“Engage your core! Why walk when you can jog?”

The hyper-energetic voice startled Rowan so much that she nearly slipped. “What—who…” she sputtered, catching herself against a lamppost. She glared into the empty street, as though daring the voice to show itself.

“Cardio is key!” the voice continued, undeterred. “It’s time to elevate your heart rate and embrace the burn!”

Rowan groaned, pressing her gloved fingers to her forehead. “Great. Now I’ve got a fitness coach haunting me. What’s next, a personal chef?”

“Fueling your body is essential,” the voice agreed enthusiastically. “But let’s tackle one thing at a time. A quick jog between lampposts will do wonders!”

She shook her head, muttering, “Absolutely not. Jogging in this weather? Are you trying to get me killed?”

“No risk, no reward!” it chirped.

Rowan hesitated. A part of her wanted to dig in her heels—figuratively and literally—just to spite the voice. But another part, the one that still remembered the strange satisfaction of her newly organized kitchen, whispered: Why not?

With a sigh that could have melted the ice beneath her boots, Rowan bent her knees slightly and jogged… exactly one block. By the time she reached the next lamppost, her lungs burned, her cheeks flushed, and her legs felt like jelly.

“There,” she panted, doubling over. “Happy?”

“Progress, not perfection!” the voice said cheerily. “Tomorrow, we go farther.”

Rowan straightened, groaning. “Tomorrow, I’m taking the bus.”

But as she trudged the rest of the way home, a tiny, grudging smile tugged at her lips. For all its annoying persistence, the voice had a point. She’d done something, and that was more than she could say for most January evenings.

The wind had picked up again the next evening, howling past Rowan’s ears as she trudged through the darkened streets. Despite the biting cold, her steps felt lighter, as if the absurdity of the past few days had somehow made winter more bearable.

She’d almost begun to anticipate the voices, half-expecting one to pop up the moment she turned onto her block. Sure enough, it came—but not the way she expected.

“You should prank someone,” a gleeful voice blurted out, its tone bright and chaotic. “Like, right now. Throw a snowball at that car. Or…oh! Stick gum on a lamppost!”

Rowan froze mid-step, whipping her head toward the sound as if the voice had a physical presence. “What? No! That’s… No!”

Before she could finish scolding the wind, another voice—dry and sarcastic—interrupted. “Brilliant. Because that’s exactly what her life needs. A misdemeanor.”

“Oh, lighten up,” the chaotic voice shot back. “She’s boring enough as it is.”

“Focus, everyone!” snapped a third, sharper tone. This one was clipped and authoritative, as though someone had appointed themselves team captain of the airwaves. “We need a vision board. Or at least sticky notes.”

“I’m not making a vision board out here, in the middle of… winter,” Rowan hissed. “And who even carries gum anymore? What is happening?”

“Progress,” said the dry voice, heavily laced with sarcasm. “Or, as our prank-loving friend here would call it, chaos.”

“Chaos is progress,” declared the chaotic voice. “Ask Einstein.”

Rowan groaned, clenching her fists. “Would you all just stop for one minute?”

“Not possible,” said the sharp voice. “Now, where were we? Vision boards? Schedules? Life-changing spreadsheets?”

“Can we do this inside?” Rowan snapped, louder than intended. She glanced around and caught the bemused gaze of a passing dog walker. Their eyes met, and Rowan’s face flushed with heat. “I…uh…just… talking to myself!” she called awkwardly, waving them off.

“Smooth,” said the sarcastic voice. “Very convincing.”

“Ignore them,” Rowan muttered under her breath as she marched onward, the bickering voices trailing after her like an argumentative, invisible entourage.

The next evening, the wind had lost none of its edge, and Rowan’s nerves were frayed before she even left work. Her shoulders were already hunched against the cold as she stepped outside, scanning the dark street like someone expecting an ambush.

Every rustle of a plastic bag or whistle of wind set her on edge. But for the first few blocks, there was nothing more than the sound of her boots crunching on the salted sidewalk. Just as her shoulders began to relax, a mischievous voice rang out with gleeful energy.

“Hey! You know what would be hilarious? Knock over that trash can!”

Rowan groaned. “Not you again.”

“What?” said the chaotic voice, feigning innocence. “It’s fun! Trash everywhere, a little chaos… live a little!”

“Absolutely not,” Rowan snapped, quickening her pace.

“For once, I agree with her,” said a sharp, practical voice. “Chaos is not progress. Move along.”

“Oh, come on! It’s harmless!” argued the chaotic voice.

“Enough,” barked the authoritative tone. “We have bigger priorities, like organizing her evening. Rowan, we need to discuss actionable steps for tomorrow.”

“She doesn’t need actionable steps,” said a third voice, warm and peppy. “She needs to visualize her success. Rowan, have you thought about a gratitude journal?”

Rowan groaned louder, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, for crying out loud. Do any of you actually talk to each other?”

“Why should we?” the sarcastic voice chimed in. “They’re exhausting.”

“Excuse me?” snapped the peppy voice. “Some of us are trying to help her unlock her potential.”

“You call this helping?” Rowan demanded, throwing up her hands. “Because from where I’m standing, it’s like herding invisible cats.”

Before any of the voices could reply, a new one broke in, smooth and unfamiliar.
“What she really needs is to throw out all of these plans and embrace the moment,” it purred. “Let go of control—”

“Absolutely not!” shouted the authoritative voice, cutting it off.

“Who invited you?” the sarcastic voice added, dripping with disdain.

“Ignore them,” said the new voice, insistent. “They don’t understand what you truly need, Rowan.”

“What I need is peace and quiet!” Rowan shouted, startling a couple walking their dog nearby. They gave her a wide berth, muttering something about unstable people. She flushed, gripping the edges of her coat tightly.

“You all need therapy!” she hissed under her breath. “Or… or couples counseling, or something. Figure it out!”

The voices fell silent. The wind itself seemed to hold its breath as Rowan resumed walking, her boots crunching on the icy sidewalk. Just as she began to hope she’d finally scared them off for good, the sarcastic voice muttered, “Therapy… not the worst idea.”

Rowan groaned and kept walking.

The world was eerily quiet the next evening, as if the voices had finally taken her outburst to heart. Snow fell in fat, lazy flakes, muffling the city’s usual hum. Rowan trudged home under the streetlights, their glow diffused through the falling snow, casting a dreamy haze over everything. For the first time in days, her mind felt like her own.

Until it didn’t.

“So… about that gratitude journal,” chirped the peppy voice, breaking the stillness.

Rowan groaned. “I thought I’d scared you all off.”

“We had a meeting,” said the sarcastic voice, dry as ever. “Turns out, we’re hard to get rid of.”

“That’s because we’re invested in your growth!” added the peppy voice.

“I vote we focus on actionable steps,” said the authoritative voice, cutting in.

“Enough of this feel-good nonsense.”

“Can we not?” Rowan said through gritted teeth. “It’s been a long day.”

“Every day is an opportunity!” said the chaotic voice, far too excited. “Let’s do something wild. Build a snowman in the middle of the street!”

“That’s illegal,” the practical voice interjected. “And also pointless.”

Rowan stopped in her tracks, throwing her hands up. “Enough! All of you, enough! Do you hear yourselves? You’re exhausting!”

The voices fell silent, but only briefly.

“We’re just trying to help,” the peppy voice said, sounding hurt.

“Well, you’re not!” Rowan snapped. “You’re making me crazy. I’ve been arguing with thin air for days! This… this is ridiculous!”

She stood there, panting, as the snow continued to fall around her. A dog walker across the street paused to stare, then hurried away.

For a moment, everything was still. Then, Rowan’s eyes widened. The absurdity hit her like a slap.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m arguing with myself.”

She burst out laughing, the sound carrying into the snowy night. Her laughter grew louder, doubling her over, until tears streamed from her eyes. She stood upright, gasping for breath.

“You know what? Shut up. All of you,” she said firmly. And just like that, the voices fell silent.

A man walking past with his earbuds in glanced at her, then removed one. “Finally,” he muttered. “Thought they’d never stop.”

Rowan froze, her heart skipping a beat. She whipped her head toward the man, but he had already continued on his way, oblivious to her reaction. The wind gusted, pelting ice into her face.

The silence that followed her home was as cold as the snow beneath her boots.