Monday Microburst: The Passing Storm
Magical. Mystical. Meaningful. Monday Microburst
Every week, I’ll share a tiny tale from Plymbury—the coastal New England town where all my stories live. These moments are short enough to read over morning coffee or tea, yet just long enough to leave a trace of magic in your day. I hope they become a small ritual you look forward to each Monday.
The Passing Storm
The forecast warned of a hurricane. Already the storm rattled Liza’s windows and water swelled against her cottage door. She lit a candle, its glow trembling as she darted from room to room, pressing towels into cracks and lifting her most treasured belongings higher.
Her breath quickened, chest tight, as if the ocean itself had surged into her ribs. Since her daughter left for college, the house had felt too large to manage alone, and too quiet—every silence another reminder of the laughter that once filled these rooms. The harder she fought, the more sorrow seeped through, threatening to drown her.
Then she remembered Maeve’s voice from the day she’d sought empty-nest advice: “Sometimes you have to let the water pass through.”
Liza stilled. She closed her eyes, drew three deep breaths, and let go.
The roar shifted. Water clawing at her doorstep curled around the cottage instead, sliding back toward the marsh.
When she opened her eyes, the candle still burned—a steady flame in the dark, untouched by the storm.
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