A Sky Without Moon

Chapter 7: A Cry in the Wind

The wind had a strange way of carrying memories. It would sweep through the streets, past empty buildings and hollow rooms, whispering fragments of the past as it went. There were days when the wind felt like a companion, stirring up thoughts I had tried to bury. Its voice was soft yet persistent, tugging at the edges of my mind, reminding me of all I had lost.

I stood by the window, feeling the cold air brush against my skin. It was the kind of wind that carried change - something I had once welcomed, but now feared. The world outside moved on, the seasons shifted, but inside, I remained the same, locked in a never-ending cycle of mourning. The wind seemed to know this, dancing around me, echoing with the sounds of laughter that had long since faded.

Grief was like the wind. It came and went without warning, unpredictable and unrelenting. Some days it was a soft breeze, brushing against me gently, allowing me to breathe. But other days, it was a storm, howling through my soul, tearing apart the fragile pieces of myself that I had worked so hard to keep together.

There were moments when the wind brought me back to her. I could almost feel her presence, as if she were standing beside me, her hair rustling in the breeze, her laughter mingling with the sounds of the world. But just as quickly as it came, the moment would pass, leaving me with nothing but the aching reminder that she was gone. The wind, cruel in its persistence, would move on, carrying her memory away with it, leaving me once again in silence.

It wasn’t just her I mourned. The wind carried the weight of every loss, every goodbye, every person who had left my life and never returned. It was as if the universe had conspired to take away everything that mattered, leaving me with nothing but the echoes of what once was. The wind wrapped itself around me, heavy with the sorrow of a thousand untold stories, of words left unsaid.

I had always thought of the wind as something free, something untouchable. But now, it felt like a burden. It carried my grief, swirling it around me, refusing to let me forget. Each gust was a reminder of the void that had been left behind, of the empty spaces in my life that could never be filled.

There were nights when I would walk outside, hoping that the wind might offer me some sort of release. I would let it whip through my hair, sting my skin, as if the pain it brought could somehow match the storm that raged within. But the wind was indifferent. It didn’t care about my grief, my loss. It simply moved through the world, carrying with it the remnants of all it touched, leaving me to bear the weight of my own mourning.

The mourning wind, as I had come to call it, was always there, even when the air was still. It followed me through the days and haunted my nights, a constant reminder of what I had lost. I couldn’t escape it, couldn’t outrun it. All I could do was let it carry me, like a leaf caught in its relentless current, drifting through the empty spaces of a life that no longer felt like my own.

And as the wind howled outside my window, I realized that grief, like the wind, would never truly leave me. It would always be there, sometimes soft, sometimes harsh, but always present. It was a part of me now, woven into the fabric of my being, carried with me wherever I went.

The crying wind would continue to blow, carrying with it the pieces of my broken heart, scattering them across the landscape of my life, until there was nothing left to hold onto but the empty air.