Every night at precisely eight o’clock, Oliver turned off the kitchen light and settled by the window. This ritual was his lifeline, the fragile thread he clung to so as not to shatter into pieces. The day seemed to conclude with this quiet pause, a moment where he could simply exist—without words, without explanation, just stillness.
Across the way, on the seventh floor of an ageing block of flats on Cherry Lane, a dim yellow bulb flickered hesitantly to life. Not at once—first a slow, wavering pulse, as if someone hesitated: *Should I? Will it intrude? Is light too bold for such deep dark?* Oliver knew this hesitation by heart. It was a signal: something was about to happen. Not loud, not for everyone. Only for those who knew how to wait.
A woman appeared in the window. Slight, with a scarf she kept adjusting or removing altogether. Sometimes with a teacup, sometimes a book. And sometimes—with a weariness that suggested the day had been not twenty-four hours, but an eternity. She sat without looking directly at him, yet into the same space—the evening, the reflection, the quiet. In his mind, Oliver called her *the woman in the window*. Nameless. Wordless. Just light and shadow.
They were strangers. He didn’t know her name, had never heard her voice. But each appearance felt like a confession: *You’re alive. So am I.* Night after night, Oliver postponed everything until eight. Afterward, nothing else mattered—only the window, only this small, silent proof of existence. He began to live at eight o’clock, exactly as long as her silhouette lingered in the lamplight.
Two years ago, Oliver lost his wife. Swiftly, brutally, without mercy. He hadn’t even managed to be afraid. Diagnosis, chemotherapy, oxygen, silence. Death hadn’t arrived dramatically—just switched off her life like a hallway light. He remained. Alone. Not a widower—a ghost. At first, he drank. Not to forget, but because he didn’t know how else to fill the void. Then—just silence. Not from anger, but because inside, there was… nothing.
He counted drips from the tap. The creak of the lift. The dial tone at the end of a call. He worked remotely—mechanically, soullessly. Friends vanished. Some left on their own. Others, he pushed away. Life became a hollow vacuum. Until, one spring evening, she appeared.
At first, he noticed only a shadow. A silhouette. Then—a face. A quiet gaze, neither curious nor intrusive. Just… looking. Neutral. Warm. Expecting nothing.
Once, he was late. Returning from the chemist’s, he found the window already lit. She sat there—no book, no teacup. Just her eyes, and a tense stillness, as if waiting. Or remembering. He approached the window, hesitant, heart stuttering. Raised a hand—softly, almost imperceptibly. No expectation. She didn’t react. But she didn’t turn away, either. She stayed. And that was enough to make something tremble inside him.
The next evening, she wasn’t there. The lamp burned. But her—no. Only an empty window. A cat, yes—perched there, hunched, tail curled around its paws. Staring straight down. Straight at him. As if it knew. As if saying: *Wait.*
Oliver couldn’t sit still. His heart raced—strangely, wildly. Not from fear, but from something nearly forgotten. Concern. Care. He even stepped outside, circled the building, stood beneath her block, craned his neck—still the same window. The same silence. He couldn’t bring himself to buzz her flat. Didn’t dare. This was their unspoken pact: to be near without crossing.
Two nights later, she returned. Slowly, as though moving through cotton wool. A bandage on her wrist. Deliberate movements. But her gaze—unchanged. Just deeper. Steadier. He raised his hand again, slightly uncertain. And she… lifted hers in reply. Gently. A tired palm. A silent: *I’m here. I see you.*
In the morning, he found a note slipped under his door. No envelope. Folded in half, edges creased as if held too long before courage won out. The handwriting was rounded, unmistakably a woman’s:
*”Thank you for watching. I watch too. It matters.”*
He read it again and again. Like an incantation. Proof that silence could speak. That one could be seen, even unnamed. Even when you no longer knew who you were without her.
He sat by the window once more. The light flickered on. The woman appeared. And suddenly, there was no loneliness, no distance. Just her. And him. Two silhouettes in two windows. Two lives no longer echoing into nothing.
Sometimes, survival doesn’t need grand words. Doesn’t need promises. Just this—someone, even across the street, noticing you. Someone seeing. So you can say, without sound: *I’m here.* And receive in return—not a voice, but light.
The light that turns on every evening in the window opposite.
