Every stitch Agnes made seemed to whisper the future. A fine lace shawl? Sunshine for days. A thick wool scarf? Snow was on its way.
The townsfolk chuckled at the idea, calling it coincidence.
Then, one autumn, she knitted a deep gray cable-knit sweater—each twist and turn of the yarn shaping a pattern that felt... restless.
A week later, the sky darkened. A tornado was coming.
People stopped laughing after that.
One evening, as the wind howled through the trees, a stranger knocked on Agnes’s door. He was tall, with tired eyes and a worn-out coat.
“I just need a place to wait out the storm,” he said.
Agnes stiffened. That voice—it wasn’t quite right, but the laugh that followed sent shivers down her spine. It was her husband’s laugh.
“You knew him, didn’t you?” she asked, needles clacking as she worked.
The man—Henry—nodded. He told her how, decades ago, her husband had picked up a hitchhiker on a lonely road. He had given Henry a meal, a ride, and words of kindness that Henry never forgot.
And now, all these years later, fate had brought him to Agnes’s doorstep.
Together, they sat by the fire, knitting side by side. Stitch by stitch, they wove something new—a blanket full of swirling patterns, a storm calmed by gentle hands.
The tornado veered away.
The next morning, Henry stayed to fix Agnes’s porch. Days turned into weeks. She knitted; he helped around the house.
Now, at the general store, Agnes’s sweaters hang neatly in a row.
Each one has a tag:
"Partly Cloudy.”
"Chance of Rain.”
"Bring Umbrella.”
And no one doubts her anymore.