Through My Window นิยาย & เรื่องราว

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.

And what are the fucking chances it’s my fucking Gamma out of all people? Ah, hell. How do I approach this? I sigh, dropping my arm over my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I hear is screaming children outside my window. I groan as I move while I rub my eyes and scrub my face to wake myself up. I absentmindedly pick up my cigarettes and light one up as I walk over to the window where the noises are coming from. I open the window since I’m smoking, resting my arms on the windowsill, listening to all the different conversations coming from the excited kid below me. My phone pings next to me, and I see who it is.

My gaze settled on the window! I dragged the trash bin closer and flipped it. It wobbled under my weight, but I braced myself against the cold wall. The window was narrow and painted shut. I pushed. Nothing. I shoved harder. Creak. The frame popped open just wide enough for me to squeeze through. I dropped onto a bed of gravel and swallowed a scream. Catching my breath, I pushed myself to my feet and limped my way around the property, toward the main road. My phone vibrated with another text.

· Someone had taken a picture of my window. · · From outside. · From very close. · And the message beneath it froze my heart. · “You’re next.”

Thinking that sends a quick, sharp ache through me. Mera would’ve known. She was the one who handled things like that. I move slowly from window to window, pulling fabric across glass, trying not to spiral into irritation over the ridiculous number of panels. When I reach the last window on the west wall beside my bed, I hesitate. From here, I have a direct view of the small cottage next door. Into Carter’s place.

I can see the curtain, the shadow of someone moving inside. The message reads: I am not there anymore. I am closer. I am inside. I have been inside. I am in your walls. I am in your vents. I am in your head. I have been here all along. You just did not see me. I stand. I walk to the window. The glass is cold against my forehead. The fire escape is empty. The metal is wet. The stairs lead down into the dark. The window is locked. The latch is secure. I check it twice.

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.

LUCIA ~ When I opened my eyes, there was already sunlight spilling in across the bed. I can’t remember when I fell asleep and for a moment it feels as if last night was a dream. I looked over at the window and the crack was gone. I stood up to look closely, it was really gone. But when I touched it, I felt a faint hum against my fingers. It was very faint, like a pulse. I tried to convince myself that it was the wind blowing against the window.

Dax's words were like a sharp knife that stabbed my heart, reopening a healing wound. His words were like salt that rubbed an open injury. It stung me, filling me with searing pain as I remembered my past. Transferring all the aggression on the windows, I scrubbed them with all my might, crying profusely. By the time I got to the brothers' window, I wiped my tears and cleaned my face with the dew that dropped on my palm. Their window was tinted in such a way that it reflected the image of the things outside only. No one would be able to see them from the inside.

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.