The other side of the window .

It was a quiet Saturday.

No school. No bells. Just gray clouds, soft wind, and a girl sitting on a bench in the park.

Nora sat alone, legs curled slightly beneath her, a torn piece of bread in her hand. It wasn’t really breakfast, but it was something. The air was cold enough to sting a little.

Eli saw her from across the path. Most people walked past her like she was part of the bench, like she wasn’t even there. But Eli always saw her.

He walked over slowly, careful not to startle her.

“Didn’t feel like staying home?” he asked softly.

She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either. That was her way of saying you can sit.

He did.

Her fingers tightened around the piece of bread. “It’s Saturday,” she whispered, voice rough from not being used much. “No one’s home anyway.”

Eli didn’t ask questions. He never did. He just sat beside her, close enough to share warmth but not too close.

“You want to come to my place?” he said after a minute. “It’s warmer. And… there’s food that’s not just bread.”

She hesitated. The wind tugged at her sleeves.

Finally, she gave a small nod.

Nora trusted Eli.

Not because he promised things.

But because he never did.

He didn’t try to fix her. Didn’t say you’ll be okay or I understand. He just stayed.

She only trusted him as a friend.

Because she didn’t trust love anymore.

Love made you soft, then left.

She had the proof.

Eli’s house was quiet, warm.

Photos smiled at her from the walls. The scent of tea drifted through the air. It was the kind of place where people remembered your birthday and folded blankets even when no one was visiting.

Eli’s mom looked up as they came in. “Nora,” she greeted kindly. “You’re just in time. I made mint tea. You can come sit in the kitchen if you’d like.”

Nora shook her head slightly. Too much.

“She’ll be in my room,” Eli said. “We’re just gonna hang out.”

His mother smiled. “There’s a blanket in the basket if she’s cold.”

Eli’s room was softly messy. Books stacked by the window. A puzzle half-finished on the floor. It was the kind of space that didn’t expect anything from her.

Nora sat on the bed, still holding her sketchbook but not drawing.

Eli sat beside her on the floor, back to the bed, eyes on the ceiling. “You okay?” he asked, though he already knew.

She nodded. That was all she could give.

Then she heard it.

From the kitchen—his mom, humming. The sound of a spoon against a cup. The soft warmth of a woman’s voice filling a house.

And suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore.

She was nine.

Her mother sat by the window, wrapped in an old sweater with paint on the sleeves. Her face was pale, but her smile was gold.

Nora was drawing beside her. Messy, crooked shapes on a page. Her mother brushed her hair back gently.

“You’re good with silence,” she whispered. “That’s a gift.”

Nora had smiled.

Her father came into the room. Quiet. Hollow. He sat in the corner but didn’t speak.

Her mother had coughed that night. For hours. Nora had sat in the hallway, clutching her pillow, listening.

Two weeks later, her mother was gone.

Her father didn’t cry. He just faded. Like a shadow no one noticed slipping out the door.

He left a week later.

She remembered the sound of the front door closing. It wasn’t slammed. Just… shut. Like someone giving up. She waited for it to open again. She waited all night.

Nora waited for him to come back.

He never did.

After that, everything became quiet. Too quiet.

Neighbors sometimes asked where her father was, but she said he was working.

She learned how to heat soup from a can.

Learned to be small.

Learned not to be noticed.

No one came. No one checked.

And she didn’t ask.

Because asking meant hope.

And hope had already left.

She blinked hard, and the memory slipped away like fog. She realized her hands were shaking just slightly.