A Visitor in the Dark

The owl returned the next night, and the one after. Always around the same time between 2 and 3 a.m., like she kept her own secret schedule.

She never flew close. I couldn’t even see her at first, just heard the low, echoing sound. But her presence felt oddly comforting, like I wasn’t the only one awake. Like maybe the night had its own quiet watchers.

Eventually, I spotted her, perched at the corner of the roof, still as stone, eyes like twin moons. She didn’t move when I looked at her. She simply existed, unbothered, as if to say, you don’t need to fill every silence.

I started to look forward to those hours. The stillness. The way the wind whispered through the trees. The owl’s soft rhythm breaks the dark.

Lessons from the Rooftop

One night, the owl didn’t come. I waited longer than usual, even checked the rooftop in the morning light. Empty.

But I wasn’t disappointed. I just smiled. Like all the best teachers, she had come for a season, left a lesson, and moved on.

She taught me that presence doesn’t always look like productivity. That being awake doesn’t have to mean being busy. And that sometimes, the most powerful conversations happen in silence.

Now, even when sleep finds me, I still leave a little space in my evenings. I turn off the noise. Step outside. Listen.

Because somewhere out there, on another rooftop, in another silence, an owl waits for someone to pay attention.