It’s there when you finally stop to rest and close your eyes. Gentle against your skin, ruffling your clothes in a springtime dance. It comes with rain and sun and at the dead of night. It secrets through the cracks in the doors, through the screens and stubborn windows.
For the most part, it goes unnoticed. But it never leaves, not really. It calms, very often, and as such is mistaken as gone. It takes only a small moment, though, to feel it again. Even within a still room, it lifts the dust from the shelves and into the streaming light, floating the small flecks from one end to the other and back again, restless, waiting for someone to enter.
And when you do it swirls with such enthusiasm that you cough. So you open the windows, allowing it to run as it pleases. And at that moment you appreciate even more the way it sweeps past you and through the room, cleansing, purifying. And so you savour every breath you take.