It was supposed to be just another ordinary night until a familiar voice called my name from the kitchen, even with the house locked and empty. What I saw when I turned around defied everything I believed was possible. And nothing was the same after that. Hello my friends. I am Linda and this is Linda Love Stories.
I hope you enjoy this story. The silence of the house suffocated me. Two years had passed, but the feeling of emptiness remained the same. The distant sound of the television served as a sound cushion against the oppression of the empty walls and the corners where life once existed. I kept the television on all day, even when I wasn’t watching, just to have some background noise reminding me that the world still existed out there.
My name is Isabelle. I am 35 years old, work at a book publishing company and lost Arthur, my husband, two years ago. It was a car accident. Quick, unexpected, and devastating, like lightning striking the ground on a clear blue sky day. No warning, no farewell. Arthur was a biology teacher, passionate about birds.
We had plans to co-author an illustrated book about the species that inhabited our region. I would write and he would draw. It was one of the many dreams we built over our 10 years together. Our story began in a park. I was reading under a tree when a small sparrow landed on my book.
I remained still, enchanted by the little creature’s trust. That’s when Arthur approached, camera in hand, and whispered, “Don’t move.” The bird flew away before he could take the picture. But that moment was the beginning of something special. We met in the same park the following week by chance or fate, as Arthur insisted on saying.
By the third time, it was already planned. And on the fourth, he gifted me a delicate necklace with a bird pendant. To remind you of how we met, he said, and also because birds symbolize freedom, new beginnings, and messages from beyond. The ancients believed they were intermediaries between heaven and earth. That necklace became my amulet and the birds, our personal symbol.
When we decided something important, like buying our apartment or planning a special trip, we waited to see a bird, any species, as a sign that we were on the right path. It was our little superstition, our private ritual. On the day of the proposal, Arthur took me to the same park where we met. A nighting gale sang as he knelt down.
For us, it was the best of omens. But now Arthur is gone, and with him, the birds seem to have disappeared from my life. I still wore the necklace, more out of habit than sentiment. Sometimes I touched the small metal bird hanging from my neck, trying to remember what it was like to have faith in signs and coincidences.
The publishing company where I work became my refuge after Arthur’s death. I immersed myself in manuscripts, revisions, meetings. My boss, Elonora, a 60-year-old woman with gray hair and eyes that had seen much pain, was kind to me. “Do not force the process,” she said. “Grief has its own time. It was through the publishing house that I met Miguel.
He was an illustrator who collaborated on children’s book projects. Tall with thick framed glasses and a calm smile, Miguel was nothing like Arthur. Perhaps that made it easier to accept his company. In the beginning, it was just professional lunches to discuss a book about constellations, then coffee after work. At some point, I realized I was eagerly looking forward to our meetings. Miguel was patient.
He never pressured me when I mentioned Arthur or when I felt silent, lost in memories. He had his own scars, a difficult breakup, the distance from parents and siblings who lived in another state. He knew longing. He respected boundaries. The day he invited me to dinner outside of a professional context, I felt a mix of emotions, joy, anticipation, but also an overwhelming guilt.
How could I move on? How could I feel something for someone else? I’m not trying to replace anyone, Miguel said when I shared my concerns. Each love has its own space. We can build something new at the pace you need. I accepted the invitation. The dinner was pleasant. The conversation flowed. When he dropped me off at home, he didn’t try to kiss me.
He just shook my hand warmly and said he would like to see me again. That night, like all the others, I fell asleep to the low sound of the television. A documentary about medieval art served as my dissonant lullabi. The clock showed 217 in the morning when I woke up startled. Something was different.
It took me a few seconds to identify what it was. The television had turned off on its own. The silence was oppressive, almost tangible. It was when I heard it, a gentle voice calling my name. Isabelle. My heart raced. That voice impossible not to recognize. It was Arthur. Isabelle. The voice came from the kitchen clearer this time.
My feet touched the cold floor. I was trembling. Fear, hope, confusion, all mixed in a whirlwind that made me dizzy. Part of me said it was just a dream, that I was still asleep. Another part desperately wished it wasn’t. I walked slowly down the dark hallway. The only light came from the moon, which entered through the room’s window and cast elongated shadows on the walls.
“Arthur,” I called, my voice barely audible. As I reached the kitchen door, I stopped. I took a deep breath and turned on the light. What I saw made me freeze. There was no one there, but on the open window, a window I am sure I had closed before going to sleep, was a small nighting gale. Its shining black eyes stared at me with an almost human intensity.
I approached slowly, fearing to startle it. The bird did not move. It stayed there, watching me calmly, as if it had come specifically to find me. “Was it you?” I asked, feeling foolish for talking to a bird. But at that moment, nothing seemed impossible. As if in response, the nightingale sang, a short melody, but clear and sweet, that echoed on the kitchen walls.
Then, before I could react, it took flight and disappeared into the night. I stood there, paralyzed, staring at the empty space. Silent tears streamed down my face. It wasn’t Arthur, of course it wasn’t, but somehow, inexplicably, I felt it was a message from him. I returned to the room and sat on the bed, touching the bird pendant on my necklace.
I remembered Arthur’s words about birds being messengers between worlds. Could it be possible? Or was I just desperate for signs, for connections with what I had lost? I looked at the phone. It was almost 3:00 in the morning. Too late to call anyone to share what had happened. Who would believe it after all? A bird in the kitchen in the middle of the night and the voice of a dead man.
It sounded like the delusion of a mind tormented by loss. But I knew what I had heard. I knew what I had felt. Instead of turning the television back on, I decided to face the silence. I lay down, closed my eyes, and for the first time in 2 years, allowed the stillness to envelop me. Sleep came surprisingly quickly and with it dreams.
In the dream I was in our park, the same bench, the same tree, and Arthur sitting next to me, so real it hurt. He wasn’t as he was the last time I saw him, worn out in the hospital bed. He was the Arthur from before, smiling with those eyes that seemed to hold universes. You took a long time to sleep without noise.
he said, his voice just as I remembered. It’s hard, I replied. Silence has its own voice, and it hurts to listen to it. Arthur held my hand. His touch was warm, substantial. How could a dream be so vivid? Isabelle, you need to allow yourself to live again, he said softly. Keeping our memories doesn’t mean holding on to them. I am afraid of forgetting, I confessed.
of forgetting your face, your voice, what we felt. You won’t forget. Some things are etched into the soul. He pointed to a spot beyond the trees. Look. I followed his gaze. A flock of birds took to the sky, their wings forming patterns against the blue sky. Whenever you see a bird, remember that I am well, and that I want you to be, too.
Did you send that nighting gale? Arthur smiled but didn’t answer directly. Love doesn’t die, Isabelle. It transforms just as we transform, just as everything transforms. He stood up and extended his hand, inviting me to join him. We walked through the park in silence, appreciating each other’s presence, knowing it was limited and special.
When we reached a fork in the path, Arthur stopped. “This is my path now,” he said, pointing to a trail that climbed a hill and disappeared among the trees. “Yours goes that way,” he pointed to another path wide and sunlit. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” I said, feeling the tears forming. “It’s not a goodbye.
It’s an invitation.” He touched my necklace, the small metallic bird. An invitation to continue, to find joy again. Arthur leaned in and kissed my forehead. Go with the birds, Isabelle. They always know the way home. Then he turned and walked up the trail that led up the hill. He didn’t look back, but raised his hand in a final wave.
I woke up with the first rays of sun entering through the window. My face was wet with tears, but my heart felt strangely light. The dream remained vivid in my mind. Every detail, every word. I got up and went to the window. The city was beginning to wake up outside. People hurrying to work, cars in motion, life following its relentless course.
On the nearest tree, a small sparrow landed on a branch. It looked at me for a moment before taking flight again. I smiled, touching the bird pendant. That morning, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I had breakfast on the porch, feeling the sun on my face, watching the movement of the street. The television was off.
Silence no longer seemed so threatening. It had its own melody, its own secrets. At work, I met Miguel in the hallway. His smile lit up when he saw me. I thought of you yesterday, he said. I was reading a book and there was a passage about birds that I thought you would like. I froze for a moment, surprised by the coincidence.
“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing my expression. “I am,” I replied and realized it was true. “Actually, I’m better than I’ve been in a long time, and I’d really like to hear about that passage.” We had lunch together that day. Miguel told me about the book, about how migratory birds always find their way back home, even flying thousands of kilome.
It’s like they have an internal compass, he explained. An instinctive knowledge of where they need to go. I thought about the dream about Arthur’s words. Go with the birds, Isabelle. They always know the way home. When Miguel invited me to dinner over the weekend, I accepted without hesitation. The guilt still existed like a gentle shadow in the corners of my mind.
But it was no longer paralyzing. It was just a reminder of the love I lived and still carry with me. That night, before sleeping, I deliberately turned off the television. I opened the bedroom window, allowing the night sounds to enter, the wind in the leaves, a distant car, the occasional hoot of an owl.
I placed the necklace with the bird pendant on the bedside table where it would be visible when I woke up. The silence was different now. It was no longer a void to be filled, but a space where new possibilities could bloom. I closed my eyes, feeling a piece I hadn’t experienced in 2 years. And as I drifted into sleep, I could swear I heard very softly the song of a nighting gale.
Someday I would tell Miguel about Arthur, about our love story and the birds, about how we met in a park and how we waited for birds as signs that we were on the right path. About how even after death, the signs continued in ways I couldn’t explain. But that transformed my grief into something lighter, more bearable.
For now, I would keep this knowledge to myself, like a precious treasure, a reminder that love truly never dies. It just finds new skies to fly. If you enjoyed the story, please leave a comment with a rating from 1 to five to show how much you liked it. Also, watch the video that is now appearing on your screen. See you soon.