Through My Window Series Novels & Stories

Elara'S POV “Good morning, miss.” Maeve brought me a tray for breakfast and quickly retreated as soon as I opened my mouth to ask more questions. I sighed. She wasn’t going to give me any answers. Alone, in silence, I ate while staring out the window. Snow drifted down with a hypnotizing allure as I watched one large, fluffy flake after another pass my window and disappear into the whiteness below. I’d tried to open it, to determine if it was a potential escape route, but it wasn’t that type of window. The single pane of glass was solidly anchored in the wall.

I asked to no one in particular as I felt a cold sharp breeze go through me, my eyes followed the direction, and a window was cracked open, I walked towards it and pushed the glass further to open, from my standing direction I could see the moon so bright. The position of her painting stool directly pointing at the window, I know exactly why she chose it here, it looks beautiful. Why me though? Was it purely a mistake, do I even have a choice to be mad, she lived all her life trying to rectify what she did by living like me, and I was totally oblivious, I paint as well, could it be her consciousness that was left in my body, I painted when I want to relax but not as good as hers. "I wish the

The event I had been eagerly looking forward to is slipping away from my grasp, snatched away by someone who was once my closest kin. With a surge of determination, I take a deep breath and steady myself. I refuse to be confined, both physically and metaphorically, by my sister's malice. Summoning all my strength, I step back from the door and survey my surroundings. The room is dimly lit, the air heavy with tension. My gaze lands on a cracked window, its jagged edges reflecting the shards of pain that I have gone through my whole life. Without hesitation, I make my way toward it.

SEBASTIAN stood against the cold glass window of my study room, the dimly lit villa casting eerie shadows around me. In my hand, a wine glass trembled, its crimson contents reflecting the torment within my soul. I peered downwards, my eyes fixated on the scene unfolding before me—a sight that had become all too familiar.

I approach the window. The day falls slowly. The sky cries with me. And there, on the misty glass, something strange: A mark. A faint imprint, like that of a palm. Small. Delicate. I stare at it, frozen. I place my hand on it. It is cold, but the glass trembles under my fingers. And then, deep within me, a heartbeat. A presence. Fleeting. Fragile. But real. Not an illusion. Not a memory. Something else.

I place my hand on the window, not believing my eyes. What if Caroline is right? What if I am just seeing things? I glance down at the shattered mug and sigh before getting on my knees to clean it up. One by one, I pick up the shards and place them carefully in my palm. Soon enough they are all in the garbage, the place where I feel like my thoughts belong currently. What I saw could not have been my imagination. Peering back at the forest, I dash to the window, my nose touching the glass. My heart races as I watch carefully.

He thought about Tom at the counter before the house was awake, the river in its current season through the narrow frame, the building giving Tom his morning in the way the section had drawn it. He thought about what the window had given Tom across seventeen months. He thought about the April silver through the window and the June high light through the window and the September river through the window and the November cousin of the silver and the February window that he was looking through now. He thought about Tom having received all of these — the full year of the river through the narrow frame, the window framing the bend in every season. He thought: the window has given Tom more than th

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.

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.

Hermosa's POV I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the trees blur into a dark smudge against the horizon. My arm throbbed where the needle had pierced me—a dull reminder of the life I’d just drained out of myself for people who looked at me like a meal.