Every evening at precisely eight o’clock, Edward turned off the kitchen light and settled by the window. This ritual was his lifeline, the fragile thread he clung to so he wouldn’t shatter into pieces. It marked the end of another day—a fragile pause where he could simply exist, without words, without explanations.
Across the street, on the seventh floor of a weathered brick building on Rosewood Lane, a dim yellow lamp flickered to life. Not immediately—hesitant, as if weighing the cost: *Should I turn it on? Will it disturb the night? Is it too bright for such darkness?* Edward knew that flicker by heart now. It was a signal—something was about to happen. Not something loud, not for everyone. Only for those who knew how to wait.
A woman appeared in the window—slight, with a shawl she adjusted absentmindedly. Sometimes with a cup of tea, sometimes a book. Other times, with an exhaustion so deep it seemed the day had stretched far beyond its hours. She sat by the pane, never looking directly at him, yet somehow into the same void—into the evening, the reflection, the silence. In his mind, he named her: *the woman in the window*. No name. No words. Just light and shadow.
They’d never spoken. He didn’t know her voice, her name. Yet each quiet appearance felt like a confession: *You’re alive. So am I.* Night after night, Edward postponed everything until eight. After that, nothing mattered but the window. As if the rest of his life blurred into insignificance, and only that small glow held meaning. He began living at dusk—for as long as her silhouette lingered in the lamplight.
Two years ago, Edward lost his wife. Fast, merciless. No time for fear—just diagnosis, treatment, silence. Death hadn’t been dramatic; it simply switched her off, like a hallway light. He was left behind. Not a widower—a ghost. At first, he drank. Not to forget, but because the emptiness was too vast. Later, he just went quiet. Not out of bitterness, but because inside… there was nothing.
He counted the drops from the leaky tap. The groan of the lift. The dial tone when no one answered. He worked remotely—mechanically, without feeling. Friends vanished—some on their own, others pushed away. Life became a hollow echo. Until spring. Until *her*.
At first, he only saw her shadow. A vague outline. Then—her face. A gaze neither curious nor intrusive. Just… *there*. Neutral. Warm. Asking nothing.
Once, he was late. A detour to the chemist made him miss the ritual. When he returned, the lamp was already lit. She sat there—no book, no cup. Just stillness, threaded with quiet tension. As if waiting. Or remembering. He approached the window, heart faltering. Lifted his hand—softly, barely a movement. No expectations. She didn’t react. But she didn’t look away, either. Just… stayed. And that was enough to crack something inside him.
The next night, she wasn’t there. The lamp burned. The window—empty. Only her cat remained, hunched on the sill, tail coiled around its paws. Staring down. Straight at him. As if to say: *Wait.*
Edward paced. His pulse hammered—not from fear, but something half-forgotten. Concern. A flicker of care. He even stepped outside, circled the block, stood beneath her building, craning his neck—same window. Same silence. He didn’t knock. Couldn’t. Theirs was an unspoken rule: *Be near, but don’t cross.*
Two nights later, she returned. Slowly, like moving through water. A bandage on her wrist. Movements careful. But her eyes—unchanged. Only deeper. Steadier. He raised his hand again, tentative. And she… lifted hers in answer. A tired, gentle motion. A silent: *I’m here. I see you.*
That morning, he found a note slipped under his door. No envelope—just folded paper, edges creased from hesitation. The handwriting was soft, rounded:
*”Thank you for watching. I watch too. It matters.”*
He read those words again and again. Like a spell. Proof that silence could speak. That being seen—even unnamed—meant something.
That evening, he returned to the window. The light clicked on. The woman appeared. And suddenly, there was no loneliness. No void. Just her. And him. Two silhouettes against the glass. Two lives no longer echoing into nothing.
Sometimes, survival doesn’t need words. Doesn’t need promises. Just this—someone, even across a street, noticing you. Someone seeing. A silent exchange: *I’m here.* And in return—not a voice, but light.
The light that glows every evening in the window across the way.
