When I was young, my mother had a habit that always puzzled me. Even in the depths of winter, she slept with her bedroom window thrown wide open. I would laugh and tease her, burrowing under layers of blankets and joking that she must have been born somewhere near the Arctic. She never scolded me or explained herself in detail. She only smiled gently and said that fresh air kept the soul alive, a phrase that lingered without meaning at the time.
As a child, I couldn’t grasp why anyone would invite freezing air into a warm room. To me, comfort meant closed windows and thick quilts, safety sealed tightly against the cold. Her calm certainty felt strange, almost impractical, and I assumed it was just one of those quirks adults carried with them. I never imagined it held a deeper reason or a story she hadn’t yet shared.
After she passed away, grief settled over me in heavy waves. Sorting through her belongings felt like walking through echoes of her life, each drawer and shelf stirring memories I wasn’t ready to face. While cleaning her room, I noticed her journals carefully arranged in the nightstand, their worn covers hinting at years of quiet reflection.
