She stopped opening the
curtains somewhere between
March and June.
Not on purpose. It was
more that the light began
to feel like an opinion
the room kept offering
her, and she had nothing
to offer back. The
window kept doing its job
with a kind of blind
loyalty — same square,
same angle of sun, same
neighbor walking a dog
she had memorized the
route of.
One afternoon she stood
in front of it and
realized she had no idea
who was supposed to live
here now. The plants had
given up first. Then the
mail. Then the playlist
she used to leave on for
the room itself, as if
a kitchen deserved a
soundtrack.
The window didn't mind.
It had been a window
through other people's
emptier seasons too. It
let the light in without
asking what she'd done
with it, and on the
days she finally pulled
the curtain aside, the
room didn't comment. It
just admitted her, the
way a quiet house
remembers how to.