Every evening at precisely eight o’clock, Edward turned off the kitchen light and settled by the window. This ritual was his lifeline, the slender thread he clung to, lest he fall to pieces. The day seemed to end in that quiet moment, where he could simply sit—no words, no explanations, just being.
Across the way, on the seventh floor of an aging tenement on Cherry Lane, a faint yellow lamp flickered to life. Not at once, but with a hesitant glow, as though someone paused to ask: Should I turn it on? Will it be too much? Is light welcome in such darkness? Edward knew that flicker by heart now—a silent signal that something was about to unfold. Nothing loud, nothing for the world. Only for those who knew how to wait.
A woman appeared in the window. Slim, with a shawl she often adjusted or removed. Sometimes she held a teacup, other times a book. And sometimes—with an expression of weariness, as though the day had lasted not hours, but an age. She sat by the pane, not looking directly at him, yet gazing into the same void—into the evening, the reflection, the quiet. In his mind, Edward called her simply *the woman in the window*. No name. No words. Just light and shadow.
They had never met. He didn’t know her voice, nor her name. Yet each appearance felt like a confession: *You’re alive. So am I.* Night after night, he postponed everything until eight. After that—only the window. As though nothing else mattered, and this small, stolen moment was the only proof of existence. He began living at eight in the evening. For as long as her silhouette lingered in that lamplight.
Two years ago, Edward had lost his wife. Swiftly, cruelly, without mercy. There had been no time to grasp it. A diagnosis, treatment, oxygen, silence. Death hadn’t arrived with drama—it simply turned life off, like flipping a switch in a hallway. He remained. Alone. Not a widower—a ghost. At first, he drank. Not to forget, but because he couldn’t bear the hollowness. Later, he just fell quiet. Not from grief, but because inside, there was… nothing.
He counted the dripping tap. The creak of the lift. The dial tone on the telephone. He worked remotely—mechanically, soullessly. Friends vanished. Some left on their own. Others, he pushed away. Life became a muffled vacuum—until spring, when she appeared.
At first, he noticed only a shadow. A silhouette. Then—a face. A quiet gaze, neither curious nor intrusive. Just… watching. Neutral. Warm. Expecting nothing.
Once, he was late. He returned from the chemist from I don’t know where later than usual. The light was already on. She sat there. No book, no cup. Just her eyes—and a tense, motionless stillness. As though waiting. Or remembering. He stepped closer to the window. Hesitant, breath held. Raised a hand—softly, barely a gesture. No expectation. She didn’t react. But she didn’t turn away. She stayed. And that was enough for something inside him to stir.
The next evening, she wasn’t there. The lamp burned. But she—gone. Only an empty window. A cat, yes, perched there. Curled tight, tail wrapped around its paws. Staring straight down. Straight at him. As if it knew. As if to say: *Wait.*
Edward couldn’t sit still. His heart raced. Oddly. Urgently. Not from fear—from something nearly forgotten. Concern. Care. He even stepped outside, circled the building, stood beneath her doorway, craned his neck—same window. Same silence. He couldn’t bring himself to knock. Didn’t dare. This was their unspoken pact: to be near, without crossing.
Two days later, she returned. Moving slowly, as though wading through cotton. A bandage on her wrist. Movements careful. But her gaze—the same. Only deeper now. Steadier. He lifted his hand again. A little unsure. And she… raised hers in return. Gently. With a tired palm. Like a sign: *I’m here. I see you.*
In the morning, he found a note slipped under his door. No envelope. Folded in half, edges slightly worn, as though held too long before the courage to leave it. The handwriting was soft, rounded:
*Thank you for watching. I watch too. It matters more than you know.*
He read those words over and over. Like an incantation. Proof that none of it was wasted. That silence could speak. That one could be seen, even unnamed. Even when you no longer knew who you were without her.
He returned to the window. The light came on. The woman appeared. And suddenly, there was no loneliness, no distance. Just her. And him. Two silhouettes in windows. Two lives no longer echoing into emptiness.
Sometimes, survival doesn’t need grand words. Or promises. Just this: someone, even across a 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 burns each evening in the window across the way.
