Detached from All the World

A short story

September 16th, 2025

A single seed hung suspended in the air of my bedroom. It was so still indeed that I thought it first to be a spider which had lowered itself down from the ceiling to say hello. I even waved my hand above it to certify there was no invisible trick string. Slowly as to not disturb it, I moved my open palms around the seed in three dimensions as if creating a protective shield; it was indeed detached from all the world. Yet unlike other terrestrial objects of shape and mass, it did not fly about as a servant to the wind, nor did it sink as all things must do and come to a rest on the carpet. It stubbornly remained exactly where it was, almost, it seemed, willfully so. And having a will of its own, it stared back at me.

Who knows how it arrived there. My bedroom with a single back facing window is located on the top floor of a three-story house on the top of a hill looking out over West Philadelphia and its turrets, peaks and eves. This particular day the window was opened approximately four inches at the top. The September weather was decided demure and friendly. A meandering breeze may have taken up the delicate task of shepherding this seed from its far away pasture, along this treelined streets, above the battered shingled rooftops, and deposited it through my window’s narrow opening. Or it could have as easily have arrived by chance. But seeing how this seed seemed to look back at me, with the barefaced earnestness of a cat, I suspected it was delivered.

The afternoon sun was splashing through that window and illuminated the seed’s hundred tendrils in a brilliant gold. There was no breeze to speak of. So, I raised my hand up in a guiding motion in the way someone would beacon another from across a wide field and the seed spun and cartwheeled behind it, playful in its sudden animation. With my other hand I pulled the air downwards, guiding the seed along with it. It did not then forget the bit and submit to its master gravity, but caught a miniscule column of air and rose to its height again, and again it looked back at me. Who is this gentle, curious spirit which had come into my bedroom? What did it mean to ask me with its one hundred inquisitive eyes?

I thought of closing my hand around it, thought of maybe placing it in a jar to place beside my bedside to experiment with later. Instead, I gave it one good look, so closely that it could have perched itself on the tip of my nose should it fancy to. I turned and left the room.

There is a good chance that seed is still in my room, having eventually tired itself and landed on the spines of one of my books or hiding in and amongst my socks. Or, in another scenario, it left as unobtrusively as it arrived to go back home or to slip into another’s open window. I hope it is the latter. I‘ll leave the window open just to be safe.