The Shadow in the Window
Every evening at 8:00 PM, William turns off the kitchen light and settles by the window. This ritual has become his anchor 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, with a slight delay, as if hesitating to disturb the darkness. The reflection in the glass seems to whisper that something important is about to happen—but only for those who know how to wait.
A woman appears in the window. Delicate, with a scarf tied loosely around her hair. Sometimes with a book, sometimes with a mug. Sometimes with shadows of exhaustion, as though the day has drained her completely. She sits at the table by the window and gazes into the night—not at him, but into the space where their glances might meet: the emptiness, the dusk, the shadows. William calls her “the woman in the window” in his mind. He never gives her a name. He’s afraid 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 routine: the lamp’s light, her silhouette, the slightly parted curtains. Sometimes a cat curls up on the windowsill, a fluffy guardian of their wordless connection. Sometimes the scarf is a different colour. William arranges his days around these moments—dinner, calls, errands—all finished by eight. Then comes the quiet. The window. And the feeling he hasn’t dared to name in years: “I’m alive.”
Three years ago, William lost his wife. It happened quickly: the diagnosis, months of hope, hospitals, oxygen masks—and then silence. Death arrived softly, without drama, like a switch flipped in an empty room. He never had time to process how life had shattered. The first few months, he drank—not from grief, but from emptiness, mechanically. Then he went quiet. Not out of pride, but resignation. He cleaned the flat, counted steps across the floor, listened to the creak of the front door downstairs. Any sound to keep from losing his mind. He worked remotely, but the days dragged like fog. Friends faded—some on their own, some with his silent permission. He dissolved—into life, into himself.
The woman in the window appeared in autumn, in the grey drizzle of Manchester. At first, he only caught glimpses—the shadow of a hand, a silhouette. Then he met her gaze—calm, unhurried, asking nothing of him. That look was a sliver of light in a world where no one asked how he was.
One evening, he was late. He returned from the chemist ten minutes past eight. The light was already on, but something was different. She sat by the window—no book, no mug, none of her usual movements to adjust her scarf. She stared straight ahead, perfectly still, as if frozen in waiting. Her posture held a pain, taut as a wire about to snap.
William hesitated. He stepped closer to the window, almost guiltily. And for the first time, he raised his hand. Gave a small, hesitant wave—not expecting an answer, just to say, “I’m here.” She didn’t react, but she didn’t look away either. She stayed. And for the first time in years, something forgotten stirred in his chest.
On the third evening, she wasn’t there. The light was on, but the window was empty. The lamp cast a warm glow, but behind it—no shadow, no movement. William waited half an hour, forcing himself not to panic. Then another hour, inventing explanations: a cold, visitors, errands. But unease coiled tighter around his heart.
He threw on his coat, crossed the street, and stood beneath her building, looking up. The cat sat in her window. Hunched, tail curled around its paws, it stared down at him. Unblinking. As if it knew a secret and was murmuring, “Wait.”
William wavered. Knock? Search? Ring the neighbours? What if it was too much—what if he scared her? Or worse—what if he learned what he feared most? But his heart pounded harder than it had in years. In that moment, he felt something he thought long buried: care.
Two nights later, the light returned. The same soft, familiar glow. She appeared—a bandage on her arm, movements slow and careful. She sat by the window, gazing into the dark. William waved again—shyly, as if afraid to startle her. And this time, she responded. Lifted her hand—weary but steady. A sign: “I’m here. I see you.”
The next morning, a note lay by his door. Simple, slightly crumpled, no envelope. The handwriting neat, with gentle flourishes, like old-fashioned letters:
*”Thank you for watching. I watch too. It keeps me afloat.”*
William held the note like something precious. Reread it, disbelieving. He stepped to the window, looked toward where her light would soon appear. And for the first time in years, he felt it: he isn’t alone in this cold city. There is light. There is a window. There is someone who sees him, who notices—without words, without demands, 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 make getting up in the morning worthwhile.
