Ares Hidalgo Through My Window Mga Nobela at Kwento

The calm cerulean-blue pool reflected the room opposite, giving the impression that it was right beneath the water and inverted. Channing squeezed a blob of sunscreen into a palm and settled back in his recliner to stare at the shape in the water. He wanted to see if he could make out the wordings on the high windowsill without having to look up at the real thing. He couldn't see anything from his position. He rubbed the lotion all over his muscular chest and sat up leaning over the edge of the recliner to stare at the water.

The law was his weapon now. The panic inside me didn’t break. I walked away from the window. Stood in front of the cracked mirror. The woman looking back at me didn't look like an analyst from Chicago anymore. Her gold dress was ripped, stained with grease and blood. Her hair was falling from its knot. Her eyes were dark, hollow and fiercely alive. Julian thought he had directed the tragedy. He thought because he had watched me for ten years he knew how much pressure it took to make me break. He thought I would run until my fuel died then crawl back to his penthouse to beg for my fathers life.

Killer? What killer? What side character? Were the floating words in front of me suggesting that a serial killer was hiding outside my window? In the lounge, I looked at the words floating in front of me. I was half-convinced I was losing my mind. I cautiously pulled the curtain open and looked out of the window through the dim moonlight. Moonlight seeped in, spilling across the grounds below. The courtyard was vast and desolate, with not a soul in sight.

Adrеnаlіnе flооdѕ mу ѕуѕtеm, аѕ I аррrоасh. I fееl so awkward but whеn thе wіndоw rоllѕ dоwn, the mаn gawks аt me, rоllѕ thе window bасk up, аnd drіvеѕ аwау. Fоr a second, I get a reasonably сlеаr rеflесtіоn of mуѕеlf іn hіѕ passenger window. Shit. It’ѕ nо wonder hе ran оff.

Arlo The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls of our room. The warmth should be comforting, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing down on my chest. Hilda sits on the bed, cross-legged, brushing out her hair, the glossy strands catching the firelight. She looks up at me, knowing something’s wrong before I even speak. “Alright,” she says, setting the brush aside. “What’s wrong?” I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. “Scouts have reported increased human activity near our borders.”

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.

That night is so damn burned in my brain, I couldn’t forget it if I took an axe to the head. “You tried to fight too. You and Harlow were so brave,” I hear, just above a whisper. Harlan raises our defenses and I shoot to my feet. There’s no one in the room. My eyes catch something in the corner moving, and my jaw falls when I see none other than … my mother in the window. It’s cracked open only a little, and I step toward it cautiously. “What are you doing,” I ask, stopping a few steps before the glass. Tears of blood soak her face and the sight is… fucking creepy.

LAUREL’s POV ONE HOUR BEFORE HELIOS ENTERS THE DARK FOREST I haul myself up over mother’s old furniture, chairs, and cupboards to climb to the top of the stack where the window lies. And with trembling hands, I yank the planks off. The rusty nails give way, the wood crumbles and the dilapidated planks disintegrate into a flurry of dust. Then, balling my fingers into a fist, I smash the window. CRASH!

I smiled and turned back. I got close to the house and something out of place caught my eyes. A red tiny dot, like a laser. It ran across the walls and vanished as soon as it appeared. I looked up and there it was. Someone was positioned above and was aiming at a window I recognised to be the dinning. “Miguel!” I gasped I ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the gates. “Drive!” I yelled as I got into the car that would take me to the house, “Miguel is in trouble.”

Within it I glimpsed the life that could have been mine: Tía Rosa still alive the restaurant flourishing me standing behind the counter with a college diploma hanging on the wall no wounds, no machetes, no conflict. It was beautiful. It was a lie. I thrust my damaged machete into the mirror. The glass shattered outward yet than fragments it turned to ash—dark, spiraling carrying the scent of La Isla Dorada aflame. The reflection shrieked, its face fracturing like ceramic. The flawless bodega wavered, shelves bending, the cat dissipating into mist. Beyond each window, along the street responded—splintering, shedding ash, the city beginning to recall the sensation of decay.