Every evening, right at eight o’clock, Edward would switch off the kitchen light and settle by the window. This little ritual was his lifeline, the one thing keeping him from falling apart. It was like the day finally ended here, in this quiet moment where he could just sit, not speak, not explain—just be.
Across the street, on the seventh floor of an old block of flats on Cherry Lane, a dim yellow lamp would flicker on. Not straight away—hesitantly, as if someone were unsure: *Should I turn it on? Is it too bright for such a dark night?* Edward knew that flicker by heart now. It was a signal: something was about to happen. Nothing loud, nothing for everyone. Just for those who knew how to wait.
Then she’d appear. Slender, sometimes in a shawl that she’d adjust or take off. Sometimes with a cup in hand, sometimes a book. Other times, her face just held this deep exhaustion, like the day hadn’t been 24 hours but an entire lifetime. She’d sit by the window, not looking directly at him, but at the same space—into the evening, into the reflection, into the silence. In his mind, he called her *the woman in the window*. No name. No words. Just light and shadow.
They weren’t acquainted. He didn’t know her name, had never heard her voice. But each appearance was like a quiet confession: *You’re alive. So am I.* Night after night, Edward put everything on hold until eight. After that—only the window. The rest of the world faded, and this tiny moment was the only thing that made him feel real. He started living at eight in the evening. For as long as her silhouette stayed in that lamplight.
Two years ago, Edward lost his wife. Fast, brutal, no mercy. He hadn’t even had time to be scared. Diagnosis, chemotherapy, oxygen, silence. Death didn’t make a scene—just flipped the switch, like turning off a hallway light. And he was left. Alone. Not a widower—a ghost. At first, he drank. Not to forget, just because he didn’t know how to fill the emptiness. Then—just silence. Not from grief, but because inside… there was nothing.
He counted water droplets from the tap. The creak of the lift. The dial tone when he rang no one. Worked remotely, mechanically, no soul left. Friends vanished—some by choice, some because he pushed them away. Life became a hollow vacuum. Until she appeared that spring.
At first, just a shadow. A silhouette. Then—a face. A quiet gaze, no curiosity, no intrusion. Just… a look. Neutral. Warm. Asking for nothing.
One evening, he was late. Came back from the chemist’s after his usual time. The light was already on. She sat there. No book, no cup. Just her eyes—and a tense stillness. Like she was waiting. Or remembering. He stepped to the window. Tentative, heart catching. Raised his hand. Softly, just barely. No expectations. She didn’t react—but she didn’t look away either. Stayed. And that was enough to make something inside him shift.
The next night, she wasn’t there. The lamp—on. But no her. Just an empty window. Her cat, though—perched there, hunched, tail coiled around its paws. Staring straight down. Straight at him. Like it knew. Like it was saying: *Wait.*
Edward couldn’t sit still. His pulse was odd. Fast. Not fear—something almost forgotten. Worry. Care. He even went outside, circled the building, stood under her entrance, looked up—same window. Same silence. He didn’t dare buzz her flat. Couldn’t. That wasn’t their unspoken rule.
Two days later, she reappeared. Slowly, like moving through fog. A bandage on her wrist. Movements careful. But her eyes—the same. Just deeper. Steadier. He raised his hand again, a little uncertain. And she… lifted hers in return. Gently. A tired palm. 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 creased like it had been held a long time before someone worked up the courage to leave it. The handwriting was soft, rounded:
*”Thank you for watching. I watch too. It matters.”*
He read those lines over and over. Like a spell. Proof that none of it was meaningless. That silence could speak. That you could be seen even if no one called you by name. Even if you didn’t know who you were without her.
He sat by the window again. The light came on. The woman appeared. And there was no loneliness, no distance anymore. Just her. And him. Two silhouettes in windows. Two lives no longer echoing into emptiness.
Sometimes, to survive, you don’t need grand words. No promises. Just knowing—that someone, even across the street, notices you. That you can say, without a sound: *I’m here.* And get back, not a voice, but a light.
A light that turns on every evening in the window opposite.
