Where the Windows Listen

There is a window that does not open to let the wind in — it opens so the wind may listen when you have no words for your waiting.

It is not made of glass alone but of every reflection you’ve carried like a stone in your pocket — each unanswered question turned over and over until its edges are worn smooth.

When you stand beside it, the pane hums with memory: voices you forgot you knew, moments you tucked away because they were too soft to hold in your mouth.

Here, the window waits with you. It does not rush you to speak. It does not rattle for your confession. It gathers your silences the way a lake gathers moonlight — patient, unbroken, whole.

When you breathe out your small, hidden wish — may I be seen, may I be understood — the window listens. It listens so well that you remember how you, too, can listen for yourself.