A Través De Mi Ventana Novels & Stories

I haven’t had one since I fled the night of my sister’s mating. I peer both ways and then peel left, wandering along the house until I reach the living room window a dozen or so paces from the front door. Palming the glass, I try to hoist it up—nothing, not even a quiver. I step to the next window beside it and try again but come to the same conclusion.

The scent of the food is still in the air, like a memory of a kindness that was turned into an act of power. I walk to the window because windows are always small rebellions. The glass is thick and the bars outside are a promise. I close my eyes and let my mind do the thing it does best, which is to drag me back where I do not want to go. The memory unfurls like smoke.

I went to take a shower after dinner. It was then that I suddenly saw a weird palm print on the glass window. Someone must have left that palm print behind with their soapy hand while taking a shower. The print was quite faint and white against the shiny glass on the window. It was obviously a woman's handprint, and it wasn't mine. My hand was a little bigger than this. So I couldn't have been the one who put it there. It couldn't have been my daughter, Bella Quinton, either. She had tiny hands and wasn't even tall enough to reach that spot yet. Also, it definitely did not belong to my husband, Rory Quinton.

Nat’s POV The evening air bites with a chill the sunny afternoon never has. Each gust through the cab's slightly open window feels like cold needles to my sinus, sending me into another sneeze. “Bless you,” the driver murmurs for the fifth time. I massage the bridge of my nose, muttering a thank you under my breath. My gaze drifts to the window, where beautiful, colorful streaks of lights spread, buildings piercing into the horizon. People pass by in vignette, their figures blurred, each in their own, different world.

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.

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.

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.

I рісk a tаblе where I can juѕt mаkе out April thrоugh thе frоnt window. I watch her саrеfullу frоm the dіѕtаnсе. It brеаkѕ mу heart tо ѕее her walk uр to a саr window, attempt tо nеgоtіаtе a trісk and get rеjесtеd.