This Place: Stories Imagined - Story Three - Becoming

I didn’t think much would happen today.

January days feel like that to me ... already finished before they’ve properly started. The light comes late and leaves early, and everyone moves as if conserving something. Heat, maybe. Or hope.

I arrive just after lunch, when the place has gone quiet again. Not empty, just folded inward. The kind of quiet where sounds carry further than you expect. A door closing somewhere. Water running. A voice, then gone.

The cold surprises me every time. Not the sharp kind, but the one that creeps. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk faster, then slow down again when I realise there’s no reason to hurry.

The ground is soft underfoot, marked with tracks going in all directions. I try to follow them, this way, that way, but they overlap too much and I quickly get lost. Everyone’s been everywhere today and that feels important, though I can’t quite say why.

In the shed, I spot the crate straight away. It’s been sitting there all day, apparently. I know this because it feels like it has. Some things announce themselves without moving.

I crouch down beside it, brushing dust from the lid with my sleeve. There’s nothing urgent about it - no hum, no ticking clock, just potential, sitting patiently. I don’t open it, not because I shouldn’t, but because I don’t need to.

Outside, the light has started to thin again, the sky slipping towards evening almost unnoticed. The trees stand bare against it, every branch visible, every shape clear. I like them like this ... you can see how much space they take up, even without leaves ... especially without leaves.

Someone passes nearby and nods and I nod back, a little too brightly. I’m aware of myself then ... how new I feel in this place, how much I notice because I don’t yet know what can be skimmed over.

There’s talk, later, about how nothing will show for a while yet. Too early, someone says. I listen from the edge of the conversation, not quite included, not quite excluded. I think about the ground outside, about seeds I’ve never seen but still trust. I don’t say anything. Some thoughts don’t need airing to be true.

I wander to the field as the day gives up its last light. The air feels different now, thinner, expectant. As if something has been promised, quietly, and the place is waiting to see who heard it.

Near the fence, I notice a single glove tucked onto a post, fingers pointing skyward like a small, accidental flag. I smile before I can stop myself. Proof, maybe, that things don’t disappear ... they just move out of sight for a while.

As the dark closes in, lights come on one by one, not all at once, enough to suggest presence without noise. I stand there longer than I need to, breathing in the cold, feeling oddly certain of something I couldn’t explain if asked.

It occurs to me, then, that everyone here is right ... that it is too early to see anything and that something is already happening anyway.

I turn back towards the buildings, the warmth, the voices I’ll join in a moment. Behind me, the place settles ... not finished, not waiting, just quietly becoming. Tomorrow will come whether we’re ready or not and when it does, I think it will recognise itself.

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