The Sound from the Hills

“Storm’s coming," Linda thought as she opened her eyes to a darkness so complete she wasn’t sure she’d woken at all. The moon had vanished during the night, taking with it the soft silver glow that usually seeped through her curtains.

For hours she had tossed under the weight of several blankets, imagining lightning slipping through a crack in her window and striking her. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep anyway, only to wake up sweaty and tangled in sheets.

Her phone blinked an apologetic 09:42. The sun was nowhere to be seen.

Work was cancelled. The school had emailed the night before: severe weather warning. But no wind or rain had woken her.

In fact, it was one of the quietest mornings she’d known.

She drew back the curtains. The swollen sky stared back, bloated and grey, as if it wanted an answer from her just as much as she wanted one from it.

Nothing outside had changed. The trees still clung to their burnt leaves. The bin stood upright on the street. Yet somehow everything felt different.

She padded down the corridor, slippers shuffling across tiles. A faint draft curled around her ankles like the ghost of a cat. It reminded her of Jimmy, left behind at her parents’ home in England.

The house was unusually alive. Old beams in the kitchen shifted. The fridge grumbled, expecting her a lot earlier.

Last night’s supermarket chaos returned to her as she flicked on the kettle: trolleys rattling like thunder, shelves emptied, people clutching tins like treasure.

She hadn’t panicked. Just oats, bananas, apples. A few candles. Even the shopkeeper had raised an eyebrow as if asking, Is that all?

She curled her fingers around a mug, breathed the faint earthiness of green tea, and listened.

Nothing. No storm.

The leaves on the terrace outside spun lazily.

After devouring her porridge, she tapped her nails on the table. Restlessness took hold of her.

She’d made a list the night before: reading, painting, writing, films.

None appealed to her.

It felt like the storm had gotten lost and got trapped inside her instead.

Impulsively, she pulled on her boots, zipped her coat up to her chin and wrapped a scarf around her neck. Carefully closing the door behind her, she stepped outside.

She expected chaos. Wind. Noise. Something to shake her awake.

But the world held its breath.

As she walked towards town, she noticed the lampposts were still lit. The cypress trees stood stiff outside people’s houses like soldiers awaiting orders. The usual morning sounds, bins clattering over pavement, a scooter whining down the main road, were absent. A single cat slunk past, eyeing the sky as if it knew something she didn’t.

The clouds darkened like a bruise, but she kept walking.

The morning smelled of metal and damp stone.

Her familiar route into town felt foreign. The clouds above rolled like waves across a rough sea.

She noticed an old woman watering a plant in a foggy window, peering upward with a mixture of dread and curiosity. A father and son dragged patio furniture indoors, breaking the stillness with a scrape of metal on concrete.

The fountain, usually crowded with pigeons, was empty. The birds perched high on the cathedral roof, surveying her.

The bakery on the corner, warm and golden with croissants yesterday, was closed. Today it looked like a memory.

She passed closed boutiques and benches glistening with dew. An old man in a trench coat turned the corner. He muttered something in French, looking up.

Everyone was waiting.

As she continued down the street, she found herself noticing things she usually rushed past. The way the ivy clung to the post office wall, the slight chip in the cathedral’s bell tower.

The school appeared ahead, its windows dark, it’s gates locked. She had never seen it so still. Yesterday’s laughter and bells seemed to drift in the heavy air. A few wrappers were scattered across the playground. A scarf someone had left behind fluttered weakly on a bench.

She stopped at the gates, gripping the cold metal bars.

On a normal Tuesday, she would be inside, ushering children into class, reminding them to speak English during lessons. But here she stood outside, missing their chatter more than she expected.

Her thoughts drifted to the suitcase under her bed, the one she never put far away. She never thought she’d stay here that long anyway.

Last night, she’d promised herself she’d decide after the storm.

A deep, distant rumble pulled her back to reality.

She turned sharply toward the hills, barely visible under the thickening sky.

The clouds stood still. Even the wind listened.

Like the storm, she was almost ready, almost certain.

She turned back towards the main street, walking more deliberately now. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted the storm to come or to stay away. The silence was grounding. But clouds had also started to gather inside her.

Some neighbours now stood on balconies, one man leaned in a doorway, arms folded, eyes fixed on the sky.

“Did you hear that?” he called.

“Yes,” Linda said. "From the hills.”

“You should get inside”.

She nodded and kept going.

The lampposts had gone dark again. The clouds had lowered further, swallowing the bell tower completely.

At her gate, the gravel crunched under her boots. The cypress trees stood where she last saw them, ready to protect her.

Her home, small, slightly crooked, looked different in the fog. Honest. Fragile.

She stepped inside. Warmth enveloped her, scented faintly with last night’s dinner. She hung up her coat and settled onto the couch. It wrapped around her like a hug.

Linda looked out the window. On a clear day, the horizon stretched so far she could imagine the world was bigger than this town. Sometimes she feared that it was all there was.

Clouds assembled closer, tighter, filled with whatever she had been avoiding all these months.

She exhaled.

“All right,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”

A low rumble answered from somewhere beyond the hills: distant, hesitant, but moving toward her.

Something inside her shifted.

And before the first drop fell, she realised the storm wasn’t late.

It had been waiting for her.