**Shadow in the Window**
Every evening at 8 p.m., Benjamin turns off the kitchen light and settles by the window. This ritual has become his lifeline in the shifting tides of his days. Across the street, on the fifth floor, a lamp flickers to life at the same moment. Its glow spills softly, delayed slightly, as if hesitant—wary of disturbing the dark. The reflection in the glass seems to whisper: *Something important is about to happen, but only for those who know how to wait.*
A woman appears in the window. Delicate, with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Sometimes with a book, sometimes with a mug. Sometimes with shadows of exhaustion, as if the day has drained her completely. She sits at the table beside the glass, gazing into the night. Not at him. But to where their glances might meet—somewhere in the emptiness, the dusk, the unseen. Benjamin calls her *the woman in the window* in his thoughts. He never gives her a name. He fears it might break the fragile magic of their silent ritual.
He knows almost nothing about her. Not her name, not her voice. Only this evening rite: the lamp, her silhouette, the slightly parted curtain. Sometimes a cat curls on the windowsill, a soft guardian of their quiet connection. Sometimes the shawl is a different color. Benjamin arranges his days around these moments—dinner, calls, chores—all finished by eight. Then comes the stillness. The window. And the feeling he hasn’t dared name in years: *I’m alive.*
Three years ago, Benjamin lost his wife. It happened swiftly: the diagnosis, the months of hope, the hospitals, the oxygen masks—then silence. Death came quietly, like a switch flicked in an empty room. He barely had time to grasp how his world had shattered. At first, he drank—not from grief, but from emptiness, mechanically. Then he fell silent. Not out of pride, but defeat. He cleaned the flat, counted steps across the floor, listened for the creak of the front door. Any sound to keep from losing his mind. He worked remotely, but the hours dragged like fog. Friends vanished—some on their own, some with his quiet consent. He dissolved—into life, into himself.
The woman in the window appeared in autumn, in a drizzly London. At first, he glimpsed her only in passing—the shadow of a hand, the outline of her frame. Then he caught her gaze—calm, unobtrusive, asking nothing. That look was like light cutting through the grey haze of a world where no one asked how he was.
One evening, he was late. A quick stop at the chemist’s took ten minutes longer. The light was already on, but something was different. She sat by the window—no book, no mug, no familiar motion to adjust her shawl. She stared ahead, motionless, as if frozen in waiting. Her posture was taut, like a string about to snap.
Benjamin hesitated. He approached the window slowly, as if guilty. Then, for the first time, he lifted his hand. A small wave—barely there, expecting no reply. Just to say, *I’m here.* She didn’t respond, but she didn’t look away either. She stayed. And that was enough to stir something long forgotten in his chest.
On the third day, she wasn’t there. The light burned, but the window was empty. The lamp cast its warm glow, but behind it—no shadow, no movement. Benjamin waited half an hour, convincing himself not to panic. Then another hour, inventing reasons: a cold, visitors, errands. But unease coiled tighter around his heart.
He threw on his coat, crossed the street, and stood below her building, looking up. In her window sat the cat. Hunched, tail wrapped around its paws, it stared at him. Directly. Without blinking. As if it held a secret and whispered, *Wait.*
Benjamin faltered. Knock? Search? Ask the neighbours? What if it was too much—what if it frightened her? Or worse—what if he learned what he feared most? But his heart raced faster than it had in years. Inside him, something reawakened: care—a feeling he’d nearly buried.
Two days later, the light returned. That same soft, familiar glow. She appeared—with a bandage on her arm, movements slow, cautious. She sat by the window, looked into the night. Benjamin waved again—shyly, afraid to startle. And she responded. Raised her hand—tiredly, but steadily. A silent *I’m here. I see you.*
The next morning, a note lay at his door. Simple, slightly crumpled, no envelope. The handwriting neat, with gentle loops like ink from old letters:
*Thank you for looking. I look too. It keeps me afloat.*
Benjamin held the paper as if it were fragile treasure. Reread it, hardly believing. He stepped to the window, gazed toward where her lamp would soon glow. And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone in this cold city. There was light. There was a window. There was someone who saw him—without words, without questions, but with understanding.
Sometimes, to survive, it’s enough to be seen. Not to explain, not to ask—just to exist in someone’s gaze. And that’s enough to rise again in the morning.
