Romans & histoires Books Like Through My Window

Rebekah pov I stood by the window, the cool night air barely seeping through the glass as I drew in a deep puff of my cigarette. The smoke curled upwards, twisting and twirling in ethereal patterns, mingling with the shadows that cloaked the room. Outside, the darkness was thick, punctuated only by the distant, flickering glow of streetlights, while my mind wrestled with a chaotic storm of thoughts, each one entwined with the next like a tangled ball of yarn.

She collapsed onto the couch again, this time with no grace left in her body, just a heavy, bitter kind of exhaustion. She turned to face the wide glass window, her eyes blank, her mind spinning in loops. Outside, the city stretched out before her, glittering with the kind of indifference only a cruel universe could offer. The scene before her looked like it belonged on a cinema screen— a slow, torturous film montage of the last few days that refused to end. What a sick joke this all was.

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.

Then, with a dull thud that echoed around the silent room, I shut the book. My gaze shifted toward the grand arched window. It was evening now. Outside, the sky was painted in a bruise-like gradient of deep violet and twilight blue, the gloomy clouds hanging low over the pack grounds while the cool air whistled softly against the glass panes. The quiet beauty of the territory felt suffocating, a stark reminder of the gilded cage Creighton was slowly building around me.

Emma's POV The words hang in the grey air between us, cold and sharp. The nursery window. My hand does not shake. I do not let it. But the stone pavement beneath my boots feels suddenly unstable, as if the ground itself is shifting. In my mind, I see the small white frame of the window at the end of the hall... the one that looks out over the quiet courtyard... the one where Willa stands in her pajamas to watch the rain. I see a hand reaching through the glass.

What are these people saying? Did I...somehow...fall back seven years of my life? Time travel? I turned to the familiar row of books on the small bookshelf. It was mostly science books, and I ran to them, opening the first one I could grab. Nothing. Then only something about the theory of relativity in the second. Then the third had an article. The writer of the article was in the top left corner of the page, and in it, he was talking about how he believes it is fully possible to bend time and pass through, letting yourself in through different horizons, at time either long past, or never experienced.

Both were really awkward at each other at first but when they found out that both were reading the same book, they eventually got a comfortable to talk at each other. “So, you also read that book-” “Yeah, I got into it after a friend of mine recommended it to me.” “Isn’t it a great book.” “Yeah, I got hooked on it after reading the first chapter.” “bla-bla-bla” Both continued to talked to each other and enjoyed their conversation. “I was feeling an awkward atmosphere growing between our table so I was gonna try to start a conversation but when you brought out your book, I was just surprised to see a person reading it.” The girl said.

And she thought of the adults in the house, the friends outside, and the way each action, each word, could ripple outward. Gemma’s pen finally touched the page, moving almost of its own accord. She wrote of the porch, the wind, the laughter, the quiet moments and sharp edges. She wrote of the things people didn’t say, the secrets they carried, and the truths that were waiting, patient and unyielding.

I went to the window and pressed my palm against the glass and looked at the garden in the first full light of morning — green and still and locked behind two inches of reinforced glass and twenty-two minutes of patrol. Outside. Still wanting it. Still here. I picked up the fourth book — the one I hadn't started yet, chosen by a man who had read my file and found patterns I hadn't known were there — and I sat in the chair by the window. His chair. I sat in his chair and I opened the book and I read. I didn't examine why I had chosen his chair. Some things you file without looking at them first.

It looked ancient, and as my eyes touched its words I felt as though I was in the presence of a very old, very powerful being. My eyes pricked with tears. The raindrops hit the window beside me, splintering and splitting into two halves. Outside, I could see the figure of the wolf statue that Alpha Felix and Luna Carla had got us as a house-warming gift. A single drop of rain ran like a stream down the centre of its image, clinging to the glass pane of the bay window and trailing into insignificance as it fell to the wet ground below. I turned back to the open, withered pages of the book. I flicked through it, my fingers careful as they ran through the papers. One word caught my eye: Life.