A Través De Mi Ventana Novels & Stories

Anger coursed through my veins, fueling my determination to confront Martha, even though deep down, I questioned whether she would be willing to engage in a conversation with me. As I approached the table, a heavy sigh escaped my lips, a poignant gesture that mirrored the weight of my emotions. I couldn't help but turn my gaze towards the window, seeking solace in the outside world. The view outside seemed to reflect the turmoil within me as if nature itself understood my inner turmoil.

A mask slipped over my face. I disabled the mansion’s cameras through my phone, debating whether to take the back door or the window. The staff might delay me. The window was risky—but faster. Window it is!

That morning never came. I stood at my office window , staring out from a large glass windows that framed the bustling city below. The faint hum of traffic, the chatter of people, and the soft clicking of my own fingers on the window were all too distant. My mind, like it always did when the silence crept in, wandered back to Diana.

I place my hands flat on the bare wood. And I watch, through the window, the day fully rising, indifferent to cleanings, to dramas, and to missed breakfasts.

Rookie fucking mistake, I should have examined the window with more caution. Aside from finding another trap, I did learn the windows are made out of something similar to a two-way mirror or tinted windows. I can just make out my reflection in the glass, but I can’t see through it, yet I can see the light of this supposed lightning flashing inside. Iolaire walks up to me, “Find anything?” She quietly asks. “Razor blades,” I deadpan.

The silence around me felt heavy and suffocating. As I gazed out of the window, I was filled with astonishment at the sight before me. Through the glass, I caught a glimpse of Sarah emerging from the front door of the house. The sunlight seemed to dance around her, illuminating the vibrant colors of her dress and casting a radiant glow around her.

And he was all I had left in this world. I got up and opened the window a crack to let the scent of summer inside. Not enough to let the heat in, but enough for my mind to clear. I took a moment to linger by the window, wishing I could bottle the humid scent of warm, night breezes and open it whenever I desired.

The photograph was not taken from inside my room. It was taken through the window. From outside. The angle came in low and slightly to the left, catching my desk and the edge of my bed and the sunflowers on the sill, but the glass itself was visible at the very edge of the frame, a thin reflective line I had missed the first time because my eyes went straight to the dead flowers and stopped there. Through the window. Not inside.

The window is open from the inside. After Geneva.

Like the soul of every silent moment I had ever endured had risen at once to roar. My window cracked, and the glass shattered into several pieces behind me.