When the Universe Knocks (Short Story)

by Bill Combs

Part I: The Contraction

Gabe Whitman moved through the morning like a ghost in his own life.

The alarm chirped at 6:05 a.m.—not 6:00, because five minutes made it feel less brutal. The coffee pot sputtered to life as he dressed in the soft half-light of his sterile apartment. Navy slacks, gray button-up, black shoes polished but scuffed near the toes. He didn’t remember buying them, only that they were part of the costume now.

The news played on low volume in the background—always on. The anchor’s voice was flat and clinical, detailing global unrest, market instability, and rising crime. Gabe didn’t listen, but he heard it. It filled the space between thoughts, just like the dull hum of the refrigerator or the muted clink of his spoon against the ceramic coffee mug.

By 7:20, he was out the door.

The coffee shop on 7th and Main was a five-minute walk, seven if he paused to avoid the man who always begged outside the gas station. He hated how automatic it was—his sidestepping compassion, his eyes on the sidewalk instead of the man’s face.

He ordered his usual—black coffee, double shot—and stood waiting beneath the tired halo of fluorescent light.

That’s when he saw her.

Noticed her, rather.

She sat by the window, sipping tea, legs crossed, sketching something in a small, battered notebook. Her auburn hair was piled carelessly atop her head, a single strand curling down her temple. She wasn’t wearing makeup—at least not that he could tell—and yet she looked... luminous.

She wasn’t beautiful in the cinematic sense.

She was light.

That’s what caught him off guard.

There was a kind of ease around her, like she belonged not just in the coffee shop, but in the moment itself. As though she was completely and utterly at home in her skin, in her seat, in the world. Gabe blinked and looked away quickly, embarrassed at the heat crawling up his neck.

He paid for his drink and left.

Part II: Echoes

The day passed in grayscale.

Work was a blur of half-meetings and full inboxes, clients with vague expectations, bosses with sharp ones. Gabe stared at spreadsheets until the numbers started to float, like pieces of a language he no longer believed in.

At lunch, he left the building to clear his head. A corner bench by the fountain offered a bit of sun and a momentary illusion of peace.

Then he saw her again. The woman from the coffee shop.

Juliet.

That name would come later, but in this moment, she was just the woman with the light. She sat on a different bench this time, barefoot, legs tucked beneath her, feeding breadcrumbs to a trio of pigeons.

He hesitated.

Coincidence. Just coincidence.

Still, it sent a ripple through him. A flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time—curiosity.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice him at all.

So he left her there too.

Part III: The Knock

The train home was late. The subway lights flickered as they always did, and Gabe counted the stops as he always did, ticking them off like scars.

Five stops before his, the train stalled. Mechanical failure. Of course. He sighed and stepped off. It was a long walk home, but he needed the air. He passed through the park by the river—quiet now, golden with the last sigh of daylight—and there she was.

Sitting on a bench again. Feeding birds again.

Juliet.

She didn’t look surprised when their eyes met.

In fact, she smiled.

“Hi,” she said, as if they’d spoken before.

He blinked. “Hi.”

She cocked her head. “I guess we’re meant to meet.”

Gabe gave a polite, uncertain chuckle. “We’ve... seen each other today.”

She nodded, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Three times, actually.”

“You were counting.”

“Of course.”

A pause stretched between them, elastic. Then she said, “Would you sit with me?”

Gabe hesitated. And in that single hesitation, the story branched.

The path of contraction whispered its song: You don’t know her. She’s strange. This isn’t safe.

You’re tired. Just go home. Go home. Go home.

But the other path—the one he rarely heard—was silent.

It didn’t argue. It simply waited.

And this time, Gabe listened to the silence.

He sat.

Part IV: The Opening

They sat in silence at first.

The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, just… unhurried.

Juliet tore off another piece of her croissant and gently tossed it to a fat pigeon waddling nearby. “They’re always here at this hour,” she said.

Gabe looked at her. “The birds?”

She smiled without turning. “The ones that are watching, yes.”

He half-laughed, unsure if she was joking. “Watching for what?”

“For people who notice,” she said. “Most don’t.”

There was no edge in her voice, no superiority. Just a gentle observation, like saying the sky was blue or that spring followed winter.

He followed her gaze. The park around them was quiet. Dappled sunlight filtered through the sycamore trees, making halos on the concrete. A mother pushed a stroller near the bridge. Someone jogged by with headphones in, a world of sound no one else could hear. And the birds—dozens of them—were indeed watching.

Juliet turned to face him. “You look tired.”

“I am,” he admitted, and was surprised by how easily the words came.

She tilted her head. “Not just today. I mean life-tired. Soul-tired.”

That landed like a whisper to a place he thought was boarded shut.

Gabe rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You could say that.”

She studied him—not with judgment, but with curiosity, like he was an old book she’d once read and now wanted to read again.

“Do you ever feel like you’re just... surviving?” she asked. “Like your life is made of walls instead of doors?”

Gabe stared at the ground. “Every day.”

Juliet nodded, as if she’d expected the answer. “Fear does that. Makes everything feel smaller than it is. You wake up, and suddenly your world is two feet wide and closing in.”

He looked at her. “How do you know?”

“Because I used to live there too.”

There was a silence again, but this time, it pulsed with possibility.

Then she stood. “Come on.”

“Where?”

She turned, smiling. “Let’s walk.”

He didn’t argue.

Part V: The Turning

They strolled along the river path, sunlight trailing over the water like a ribbon of gold.

Gabe felt his breath deepen without realizing it. The tightness he wore like a second skin had loosened. Juliet walked beside him with the ease of someone who wasn’t trying to get anywhere—who didn’t measure her worth in productivity or urgency.

She asked questions.

But not the kind people usually asked.

Not: What do you do? Where are you from? What school did you go to?

Instead:

“What used to make you laugh as a kid?”

“When was the last time you felt awe?”

“What’s something you’ve never told anyone, but wish someone already knew?”

They weren’t interrogations. More like offerings.

And to his surprise, he answered.

He told her about his childhood love of astronomy, how he used to lie on the roof of his parents’ house and name stars. He told her about his mother’s laugh before she got sick. He told her he used to write poetry in secret until he learned boys weren’t supposed to.

And he told her about the dream he’d abandoned. The one about traveling. Teaching. Writing things that mattered.

“I traded all of it for safety,” he said quietly. “For certainty.”

Juliet stopped walking.

They were on a footbridge now, the river curling below them.

She turned to him. “And did you find it?”

He didn’t need to answer.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small object—smooth, black, and palm-sized. A polished stone. She placed it in his hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Obsidian,” she said. “Volcanic glass. It’s formed when fire meets water so fast it doesn’t have time to crystalize. It's sharp. Reflective. Protective.”

He turned it over in his hand. “Why give it to me?”

“Because you’re at your breaking point,” she said. “And that’s not a bad thing. It’s how obsidian is made.”

Gabe didn’t know what to say.

So she smiled. “Come meet me here tomorrow. Same time.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

Part VI: The Divergence

Gabe didn’t sleep well that night.

Dreams came and went like thunderclaps behind glass. Memories surfaced—his father’s silence, the way the world had slowly narrowed, the faces he no longer called. He woke with the obsidian stone still in his hand.

He stood at his mirror and really looked—for the first time in months.

And what he saw wasn’t tragic. Just incomplete.

He returned to the bridge.

Juliet was already there, leaning on the railing, a paper bag in one hand, tea in the other.

“You came,” she said.

“I don’t know why,” he replied.

She handed him a bag. “Try the baklava. It’s a good day for sweetness.”

He bit into it. Cinnamon, honey, pistachio. It made him smile.

They walked again. And the days began to stretch.

Every afternoon, they met. No demands. No definitions.

They watched people. They talked about fear—not in the abstract, but in how it moved. Juliet had a way of explaining things that felt more like remembering than learning.

“Fear wants you small,” she said. “It makes you mistake survival for living.”

“Isn’t fear useful?” Gabe asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “Until it’s not. Fire cooks your food—but it can burn your house down if you forget to tend it.”

Part VII: The Awakening

Days passed. Weeks maybe. Gabe stopped keeping track.

Something inside him was thawing. He didn’t talk about it, not even with Juliet, but it was undeniable. The world seemed... less gray. The coffee tasted richer. Music meant something again. And for the first time in years, he caught himself humming. Once, he even laughed—really laughed—and the sound startled him.

At work, things hadn’t changed. The same deadlines, the same politics, the same tension. But he had changed. He no longer carried it home like a sack of stone. He started walking to the train without headphones, letting the sounds of the city wash over him—car horns, snippets of conversation, the rustle of wind in the trees.

Juliet never asked for anything in return. No declarations, no promises. Just presence.

“People think awakening is a bolt of lightning,” she said one evening as they watched dusk fall over the river. “But it’s really more like a gentle disassembly. You don’t explode. You just quietly stop pretending.”

Gabe looked at her. “And then what?”

“You start choosing.”

Part VIII: The Choice

It was raining the morning everything changed.

Not a downpour—just a slow, rhythmic drizzle that blurred the windows and made the city feel like a watercolor.

Gabe was running late. He didn’t stop at the coffee shop. Didn’t take the river route. He barely registered Juliet’s absence from their usual bench.

By noon, the tension was back. Thick in his chest, in his jaw, behind his eyes.

At 3:42 p.m., he opened his inbox and found an email from corporate.

“Restructuring” was the word they used. A promotion for him, technically—but with it, a relocation. New city. More responsibility. More hours. A raise.

And a leash.

He sat staring at the screen. Everyone congratulated him. He smiled. Nodded. Played the part.

But inside, something screamed.

That evening, he went to the bridge.

Empty. No Juliet.

Just rain misting the surface of the river, turning the path to glass.

He sat on the bench and waited. Minutes stretched into an hour. He checked his phone. No message. No sign.

He nearly stood to leave—when she appeared.

Soaked from head to toe, no umbrella, no pretense.

She sat beside him like no time had passed.

“You didn’t come today,” he said quietly. “I needed you to come without me,” she replied.

Silence fell between them.

Then he said, “They offered me a promotion.”

Her expression didn’t change. “And what did you say?”

“I haven’t yet.”

Juliet nodded.

More silence.

Then she said, “Do you remember what I told you that first night? About the universe knocking?”

He nodded. “I didn’t understand then.”

“And now?”

He looked down at his hands.

They were trembling.

“I think this is the knock,” he whispered. “And I’m scared.”

Juliet smiled. “Good. That means you’re paying attention.”

Part IX: The Divergence

The story splits again—just like before.

In one version, Gabe takes the job. He moves. He tells himself it’s just a step, just a season. But the spark he found begins to flicker again. Juliet becomes a memory. He writes her a letter once, but never sends it. His life becomes bigger on the outside, but smaller inside.

He’s respected. He’s successful.

But never truly seen.

And the universe keeps knocking.

But he stops answering.

In the other version—the one we choose now—he says no.

He resigns.

His manager calls it a mistake. His coworkers look at him like he’s lost it. But he feels a calm he hasn’t known in years. He doesn’t have a plan. Just a pulse of something true in his chest.

He returns to the bridge with a thermos and two cups. Juliet is waiting.

She doesn’t say “I’m proud of you.” She just pours the tea and passes him a cup.

“Where do we go from here?” he asks.

She sips her tea and smiles. “Anywhere.”

Part X: The Invitation

Weeks later, Gabe stood in the same coffee shop where the story had begun.

Same hour. Same dull buzz of conversation. Same line of people in various degrees of distraction and hurry. But something was different.

He was different.

He noticed the way the barista tucked her hair behind her ear with a nervous rhythm. He noticed the man behind him in line rehearsing an apology under his breath. He noticed the quiet song playing overhead—a cello and piano piece that had once made him cry in college.

The world hadn’t changed. But he had.

He ordered a jasmine tea—Juliet’s favorite—and dropped a folded napkin with a small handwritten quote into the tip jar. “Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” Mary Oliver. One of Juliet’s favorites too.

As he turned to leave, he saw him.

A man in a tattered green jacket, sitting near the shop’s window. Lean, weathered. Face downcast. Just sipping water, hands curled around the cup like it was a fire. His presence wasn’t aggressive, but... muted. Like someone trying to disappear.

Gabe noticed the light around him wasn’t just dim. It was pulling inward. Like his own had once done.

The Second Time was around lunch.

Gabe took the long way to the park, the same path he used to take with Juliet.

Near the fountain, the man sat again—different bench, same jacket. No bag. No food. Just sitting. Shoulders hunched. Eyes scanning the ground like he was searching for something he'd dropped years ago.

Gabe slowed.

Paused.

There was that tug—that subtle, invisible thread he knew all too well.

No, his mind whispered. It’s not your responsibility. Maybe he wants to be alone. Maybe he’s dangerous.

He took two more steps.

Then stopped.

The man looked up just as he passed, their eyes catching for a heartbeat.

Recognition.

Second time, Gabe thought.

The Third Time was the clincher.

Evening now. Gabe had taken the long walk home, letting the sky’s lavender fade into indigo.

He passed the old pedestrian bridge where he’d met Juliet for the third time.

And there—like a poem repeating its last stanza—was the man.

Sitting on the edge of the low stone wall. Feet dangling. Staring at the river as the current pulled silver light across its ripples.

Three times, Gabe thought. Three chances.

The universe wasn’t subtle. Not really. It was patient. It gave you as many rehearsals as needed before opening the curtain.

He crossed the bridge and approached.

Not quickly. Not cautiously.

Just… present.

He stopped a few feet away. “Mind if I sit?”

The man looked up, startled. Suspicious.

Gabe offered a soft smile. “You’re probably wondering why I keep seeing you today.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

“No,” Gabe said gently. “But maybe we’re meant to meet.”

The silence between them stretched—but this time, Gabe knew how to wait.

Finally, the man gave a hesitant shrug. “Seat’s empty.”

Gabe sat.

They watched the river together in silence.

The birds overhead wheeled in lazy spirals. The first star appeared in the violet sky.

Gabe reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something smooth and dark.

The obsidian stone.

He placed it gently between them.

“Volcanic glass,” he said. “It’s what happens when everything burns, but water rushes in too fast for it to fall apart. Turns into something sharp. Something strong. Thought maybe you could use it.”

The man stared at it. Then at Gabe.

“Why?”

Gabe smiled. “Because someone once did the same for me.”

Epilogue: When the Universe Knocks

We are all walking stories.

Most of us spend our days following invisible scripts—safe, familiar, unquestioned. We wake up, check our phones, drink our coffee, scroll through curated noise, and call it living. We shrink ourselves to fit into days shaped by fear—fear of not having enough, of not being enough, of losing control.

We mistake survival for life.

But sometimes... the universe knocks.

Not with a lightning bolt. Not with a booming voice from the sky. No—it's subtler than that.

It knocks with a glance from a stranger across a coffee shop.

With a smile on a park bench that feels too warm for coincidence.

With the same person appearing three times in one day, like a line of code repeating until it’s read.

It doesn’t matter who they are. What matters is what they carry.

Sometimes, they carry light. Sometimes, a question. Sometimes, a simple reminder that you are still here. Still alive. Still free to choose.

Gabe didn’t know the path would unfold like this. That a woman named Juliet would be the mirror he didn’t know he needed. That her presence would remind him he was not broken—just buried. That healing didn’t require more effort, but more openness.

He didn’t expect the universe to ask again—through someone else this time. A man on a bench, lost and quiet and waiting.

But it did.

Because the universe doesn’t stop knocking. It waits, and it circles back, as many times as needed. And once you’ve answered it once, you carry the invitation forward.

That’s the hidden grace in it all: Once your own eyes have opened, you become the next knock for someone else.

And so the sacred rhythm continues—light passed hand to hand, like a flame too ancient to extinguish.

So the question is no longer theoretical.

It’s deeply personal.

Because somewhere, today, a moment will come. A knock you won’t expect. A choice that feels too small to matter… but it will.

So when it comes—when the tug in your chest tells you this is not random—pause.

Breathe.

And ask yourself:

What will you do when the universe comes knocking?

Because the door isn’t out there.

It’s you.