a woman of the south kitchen had a habit of leaving her kettle on the stove past whistling. she would hear it, finish what she was reading, and only then rise to attend it. the kettle bore this for thirty-one years.
on the thirty-second year, on the morning of the woman's birthday, the kettle whistled and would not stop. it whistled through the morning. it whistled through the afternoon. by evening her ears had learned to ignore it, and by the next day she could no longer hear whistling of any kind — neither kettles nor birds nor wind in any door.
she lived another twenty years in this quietness, and liked it well enough. the kettle, by then on a different stove, never whistled again either. some said it was revenge. she said, when asked, that it was an agreement.
— what you make wait long enough will eventually find a way to be heard, or to stop trying.