Every evening at precisely eight o’clock, Oliver switched off the kitchen light and settled by the window. This ritual was his salvation, a fragile thread he clung to so as not to shatter into pieces. The day seemed to conclude with this moment—a quiet pause where he could simply exist, without speaking or explaining. Just being.
Across the way, in an ageing block of flats on Cherry Lane, a dim yellow light flickered to life on the seventh floor. Not immediately—it hesitated, wavering as if debating: Should I turn on? Is it too bright for such darkness? Oliver knew this flicker by heart, a signal that something was about to happen. Not loud, not for everyone. Only for those who knew how to wait.
In the window appeared a woman. Slender, with a scarf she sometimes adjusted or removed. Sometimes with a teacup, other times with a book. And sometimes—with an exhaustion that made the day feel endless, as though time had stretched far beyond its hours. She sat by the window, never looking directly at him, yet somehow into the same void—into the evening, the reflection, the silence. In his mind, Oliver called her simply: the woman in the window. Nameless. Wordless. Just light and shadow.
They had never met. He didn’t know her name, had never heard her voice. But each appearance was a quiet confession: You’re alive, and so am I. Night after night, Oliver postponed his tasks until eight. After that—nothing but the window. As if everything else faded, leaving only this small moment to remind him he still existed. He began to live at eight in the evening, just for as long as her silhouette lingered in the lamplight.
Two years ago, Oliver had lost his wife. Quickly, cruelly, without mercy. He hadn’t even had time to be afraid. Diagnosis, treatment, oxygen, silence. Death hadn’t arrived dramatically—it had simply turned off her life like flipping a hallway switch. He remained. Alone. Not a widower—a shadow. At first, he drank. Not to forget, but because he didn’t know how else to fill the emptiness. Then—he fell silent. Not out of sorrow, but because inside… there was nothing.
He counted the drips from the tap. The creak of the lift. The dial tones of unanswered calls. 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 only noticed the shadow. A silhouette. Then—her face. A quiet gaze, neither curious nor intrusive. Just looking. Neutral. Warm. Expecting nothing.
Once, he was late. He returned from the chemist’s past eight. The light was already on, and she was there. No book, no cup. Just her eyes—and a tense stillness, as if she were waiting. Or remembering. He approached the window. Hesitant, heart fluttering. Raised a hand. Gently, barely noticeable. Without expectation. She didn’t react. But she didn’t look away either. She stayed. And that was enough to make something inside him shift.
The next evening, she wasn’t there. The lamp—still lit. But no silhouette. Just an empty window. A cat, yes. Hunched, tail wrapped around its paws. Staring straight down. Straight at him. As if it knew. As if saying: Wait.
Oliver couldn’t settle. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something nearly forgotten. Concern. Care. He even stepped outside, walked around the building, stood beneath her block, and looked up—same window. Same silence. He didn’t dare ring. That wasn’t their unspoken agreement. They were to be near without crossing.
Two nights later, she reappeared. Slowly, as if moving through fog. A bandage on her wrist. Movements careful. But her gaze—unchanged. Only deeper. Steadier. He lifted his hand again. A little uncertain. And she… raised hers in return. Not much. Just a tired palm. A silent message: I’m here. I see you.
The next morning, he found a note slipped under his door. No envelope. Folded twice, edges creased as if held too long before being left behind. The handwriting was round, gently curved:
*”Thank you for watching. I watch too. It matters.”*
He read those words over and over. Like a spell. Proof that silence could speak. That one could be seen, even unnamed. Even when lost.
That evening, he sat by the window again. The light came on. The woman appeared. And suddenly, there was no more loneliness. No more estrangement. Just her. And him. Two silhouettes in two windows. Two lives no longer echoing into emptiness.
Sometimes, survival doesn’t need grand words or promises. All it takes is someone—even from across the street—to notice. To see you. To let you whisper, without sound: *I’m here.* And to answer—not with words, but with light.
The light that still flickers on, evening after evening, in the window opposite.
