Between Windows. 2

                Between Windows 2




Chapter 1. The Disappearance


I didn’t realize right away that she was gone.

Everything looked the same: the curtain in the window, the dresser with the ballerina figurine, the flower pot she always forgot to water — almost as if on purpose. But the light in the window was gone. For days. Morning and evening. As if a heart had suddenly stopped beating.

I sat on a stool, not turning on the light. The window facing hers — always open, always waiting. And silence. The kind of silence where you begin to hear your nails grow. Where even hope dies loudly.

On the third day, I left my apartment. Walked past her door. The number was still the same. But the doorbell was taped over. Newspapers untouched. Dust on the mat. The downstairs neighbor said without looking up:

“They left. For good, they say.”
And added, as if offhandedly:
“Her husband got jealous. Screamed… slammed doors. Then movers came. Suitcases. That’s it.”

I stood in the stairwell like I’d been shot. Then I went down. Slowly. Each step like a year. That night I didn’t sleep. Then again, I don’t remember the last time I really slept. My head buzzed with thoughts. My heart felt like it had been taken out, wrapped in a rag, and thrown in a cellar. I turned on the radio. A woman was singing. Too familiar: “You left without saying goodbye…”

But I… I didn’t say anything either. Not a word. Never touched her. Never confessed. And still — it felt like I hadn’t just lost a woman. I’d lost… life itself.

Lera had left, but in her chest it burned — like a soldering iron. Yes, he got jealous. Stupidly. Furiously. He grabbed her by the arms:

“Are you looking that way? Toward him?”
“I’m just standing by the window,” she said.
“Don’t lie. You’re waiting for him to show up.”

She said nothing. The kind of silence that means it’s already over. When all that's left inside is broken glass.

The packing felt like a fever dream. A gray morning. A suitcase with a loud lock. Her son watching, not understanding why his mother wouldn’t speak. When the train pulled away, she pressed her forehead to the glass and cried. Slowly. Silently. As if her soul was leaking from her eyes.

"I left him there… And he doesn’t even know I loved him…"

I began living in emptiness. Between the windows, there was only me now. She didn’t appear. And wouldn’t. But I still looked. Every morning. Every evening.

Sometimes I thought that if I stared long enough, I’d see her face — there, behind the glass. In another city. In another apartment. Somewhere she too was looking — but into nothing.

I wrote on a slip of paper: “If only you knew how much I loved you. How much I still do. How I clench my fists remembering your voice. And how I scream inside knowing I’ll never see you again.”
The paper stayed on the windowsill.

And I… I went on living between the windows.


Chapter 2. Where There Are No Windows

The city they had taken her to had no face. Not like the one before — with chestnut trees by the gates, with children’s voices, with the crackle of old windows. Here it was concrete, wet asphalt, and an autumn wind that carried thoughts away like dry leaves. Lera sat by a window that reflected only the wall of the neighboring building.

She said nothing. Her husband brought her tea — she set the cup down untouched.

“Still thinking about him?” he asked flatly, not meeting her eyes.

She flinched. Not from the question, but from the emptiness behind it.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” she said. And it was true. She really wasn’t thinking anymore. She was simply… existing. Quietly. Like an unplugged device. Like a life on pause.

At night, she lay down fully clothed. Buried her face in the pillow. At first, just silence. Then tears. No sobs — just tears. They ran down her cheeks, across her lips, onto her neck. As if her body was trying to wash out the pain. But it didn’t work. In the morning, she was the same. Worse, maybe.

One day she put on her coat and left. No plan — just forward. Past the train station. Past a little bookstore. At some point she reached a park. Sat on a bench. A boy nearby was feeding pigeons. She watched the birds and thought: if someone came up now, if someone said, “He’s alive. He’s waiting for you. He hasn’t forgotten,” — she would run. To the station. To the old window. To him.

But no one came.

Sergey lived like in a prolonged dream. He still went to work in the mornings. Still stood in line. Still returned home. But inside — nothing. Her window now reflected only sky and street, not her face.

He began talking to himself. Quietly. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes just in his head.

“Remember when you smiled? When the cat got stuck between the window sills?”
“Remember the rain, and how you watched the drops like they might write your name?”
“I’d give everything just to hear you laugh again…”

He didn’t know that she, in another city, was sitting by a window just like his. And speaking too — silently, to no one.

He started drinking. Just a little. Just enough to not feel how much it hurt.

One day he wrote a letter. A real one. No address — just a sheet of paper in an envelope:

“You are my light between the windows. If you’re still out there — answer. Or just think of me. That would be enough.”

The letter stayed on the table. He couldn’t bring himself to send it. He knew: she wouldn’t get it. Or she would — and stay silent. And silence… is worse than death.

Lera found a scrap of paper in the pocket of her old coat. It was her handwriting. A note she had written to herself long ago: “Don’t be afraid to love. Even if you’re not allowed.”

She clenched it in her fist. And cried again.

She understood: it was too late. Time had passed. He wouldn’t forgive. She wouldn’t go back. Maybe didn’t even want to. But the pain stayed. Like a scar. Like a window left open.

Sergey sat by the window, smoking, whispering:

“I love you, Lera. Even through cities. Even through time. Even if you’ve forgotten me. I still remember you. I remember — between the windows.”

Chapter 3. That Which Wasn’t Said

She remembered that day down to the smallest detail.

March. The snow had begun to melt, but the wind was still sharp. She stood by the window, wrapped in a blanket, seemingly just watching the street. But in truth — she was looking at nothing. Emptiness inside, like after a fight, after accusations, after nights when her husband came home drunk and heavy like concrete.

And then she saw him — the neighbor from the window across.

He stood leaning on the windowsill, smoking, watching. But he wasn’t just watching. There was no lust, no arrogance, not even curiosity in his eyes — only a warm, almost childlike sadness. As if he wasn’t seeing her, but her shadow. Her essence.

They didn’t wave to each other, didn’t smile. They just looked. Day after day. It became a habit: she — at the window at seven, he — a little earlier. Sometimes he read. Sometimes drank tea. Sometimes just sat in the dark.

And in that silence, something greater than words was born. Deeper than touch. As if someone whispered through the glass: “I understand you. I’m near. I’m here.”

She didn’t know his name. But her heart already did.

She didn’t even admit it to herself.
And still, when she went to sleep, she hoped he’d be there again tomorrow.

Now, in this strange city, everything was different. The window faced a blank wall. The room smelled of dust and detachment. Her husband had become quieter, more careful — as if afraid to lose control again. But she no longer heard him. She didn’t hear anyone.

One night, unable to silence the noise within, she sat at the table. Took a pen. Paper.

The letter began slowly. Her hand trembled.

*"You don’t know my name. I’m the one who stood across. The one who looked at you like someone looks at light — without knowing how to breathe. I never spoke. Because I couldn’t. Because I was afraid. Because I’m married, and I have a son, and life, supposedly, is settled. But really — it’s not. You were the first to see me not with your eyes, but with your soul. It sounds stupid, clich;, like a line from a cheap romance novel. But I felt it. I still feel it.

When you disappeared from my sight, I realized I couldn’t live the way I used to.
And now every night I imagine you sitting by the window. That you’re waiting.
And I sit by mine — only in another city.
And between us — only distance.
And everything we never said.

Forgive me for leaving.
Forgive me for the silence.
Forgive me for loving you."*

She folded the letter. But didn’t sign it. Didn’t write an address. Didn’t send it. She just pressed it to her chest and cried.

It was the only time she allowed herself to tell the truth. Even if only on paper.

That same night, Sergey woke up. It was 3:45 a.m. The wind rattled the window frames where her light once glowed. He got up, walked to the windowsill, and said into the dark:

“Are you thinking of me somewhere? Even a little?”

There was no answer. Only the streetlamp’s light reflecting off the glass.

But it seemed to him — his heart grew slightly warmer.
As if someone, from far away, had whispered:

“Yes. I am. I still am.”

Chapter 4. Time That Doesn’t Heal

More than four years had passed.

Sergey didn’t count the days. One day he simply noticed that the neighbor downstairs no longer asked about him, didn’t joke like she used to. People in the building changed, grew old, moved out. The window where Lera once stood now belonged to someone else. A family with a child had moved in. The boy often looked out while eating an apple, unaware that a woman had once stood there — a woman he’d never know, whom Sergey still couldn’t forget.

He approached the window less often. Not because he didn’t want to — but because he no longer believed. As if someone had turned off the light inside. Sometimes, out of habit, he would lift his head — his eyes would catch the emptiness, then quickly turn away. All that remained was the familiar feeling of absence.

Work hadn’t changed. The same faces. The same conversations. He didn’t pay attention. Didn’t care who the boss was, what day it was, how long until vacation. The only thing that kept him going was rhythm. Routine. The mechanics of life. Sometimes he wrote short notes — with no address, no date: “Are you still somewhere?”, “I’m alive. But it’s not the same”, “Dreamt of your voice. Thank you.” He folded the pages into a drawer. Once he burned them. The smell of smoke and paper lingered in the room for days.

Lera, meanwhile, worked at a pharmacy on the corner. She got up at six, woke her son, made porridge, stayed silent. Her husband came home late. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. He was tired. He understood. She wasn’t with him. Lived beside him, but didn’t belong to this life. He knew. She didn’t hide it.

Her son had grown. One day he asked:

“Mom, were you different before?”

Lera didn’t answer. Just smiled — faintly, quietly, like a woman who once knew how to dream still lived somewhere inside her.

At night, she wrote in a notebook. Not letters — just thoughts. “You’re probably getting older too.” “Do you still drink tea alone?” “I don’t wait, but I still remember.”
Sometimes it felt like she was going mad. She looked at her husband, at her son — and felt like she was in the wrong life. As if something had shifted, and now she was just an actress playing the role of a wife and mother she never meant to be.

Sergey once bought an old postcard at the post office — a picture of some unfamiliar city. He didn’t know why. On the back, he wrote: “If you’re seeing this — then it wasn’t all for nothing.”
He didn’t sign it. No address. He just slipped it into an empty mailbox.

He didn’t expect a reply. But the thought that she might somehow find it — warmed him. As if a single thread still connected them. And maybe one day, it would pull taut again.

They both lived in parallel realities.
Both knew: time doesn’t heal.
It simply teaches you to live — with pain, like with a shadow.

And every evening, when the lights outside came on, Sergey and Lera would both lift their eyes and whisper:

“Where are you?..”

Chapter 5. Almost

It all happened on a Sunday, in a city where no one knew anyone.

Sergey had gone there on business — a short trip, just a couple of days. He hadn’t wanted to go. But his boss insisted, and he agreed. What difference does it make, he thought, where to feel emptiness — at home or in a hotel?

He came out of the metro and stopped by a kiosk to buy water. The sun was in his eyes. People moved fast, past him, through him. He looked around, not really seeing any faces.

At the same time, Lera was walking down the same street — with her son, now a teenager. They were on their way to a museum. As always, she looked at the ground.

But for a moment — she looked up.

Sergey stood about thirty meters away, turned sideways. The wind played with his jacket. He was digging in his pocket. And it seemed to her — it was him. The one.

She stopped. Her heart hit hard. Almost painfully. She didn’t even manage to say anything to her son.

He turned. Looked right past her. And kept walking.

Didn’t see her. Didn’t feel her.

Lera stood frozen.

“Mom?” her son asked.

“Let’s go,” she said without turning. Her voice trembled. “Let’s go.”

That evening, she opened her notebook. Held the pen over the page for a long time, then finally wrote:

“Today, I almost saw you.
You were one step away.
But you didn’t recognize me.
I didn’t call out.
Maybe that’s how it should be.
We belong to different lives now.”

She didn’t cry. Just sat there, for a long time. Looking at the lamp. The walls. Her son doing homework. Her husband lying on the couch. And she felt something sink inside her again — like an anchor, dropped where there was no bottom anymore.

Sergey felt nothing. That evening in the hotel, he went to bed earlier than usual. But in the middle of the night, he woke from a strange feeling — as if someone had pulled at him with their eyes. He went to the window. Looked out at the street. No one was there. Just a streetlamp. And a shadow, shaped like a woman, slipping quickly around a corner.

The next day, they walked the same street — but at different times.
He in the morning.
She in the evening.
And neither knew they had passed within a few steps of the one they’d been missing for so long.

Some meetings, fate postpones.
Not to punish.
But to ask:

Is this love real —
if it can survive even in "almost"?

Chapter 6. The First Word

He was waiting for the bus.
An ordinary morning.
An ordinary stop.
Drizzle in the air, a hint of spring, crumpled newspapers by the trash bin. People stood around, pulling their scarves tighter. Sergey stared at a crack in the pavement — an old cigarette pack was stuck in it. Everything was just as always. Empty.

She approached from the other side. Didn’t see him right away. Her hood was up, she was in a hurry. And then — she stopped. He was only two steps away. A bit older now, more stooped. But the same look in his eyes. Tired. Piercing.

She didn’t think. Just said:

“Sergey?”

He turned.
He heard her voice.
And froze.
As if time hit pause. Everything else disappeared: people, bus, rain.

He looked at her. The silence between them was so thick it could be touched.

“Lera,” he breathed.

She nodded.

He stared at her, trying to understand — is this a dream?
And then he said:

“I… I didn’t know where you were.”

“And I always knew where you were,” she said. “Always.”

They stood in silence. Maybe two minutes passed. Maybe their whole lives.

“I thought you were happy,” he said.

“No,” she answered simply.

He nodded. Said nothing more.
Because there was no need.
They both already knew everything.

The bus pulled up. The doors opened. People began boarding. But neither of them moved.

“I have to go,” she said.

He nodded.
“Can I walk you?”

“No. Just… remember me like this.”

She stepped onto the bus. He didn’t follow. Just watched until the doors closed. And after that — he kept watching.

In the window where she sat, her reflection was visible.
She wasn’t crying.
She just looked — into a past that had finally spoken.

He stayed at the stop. The wind stirred the branches above his head.

He whispered:
“Thank you… for saying my name.”

And walked home.
With silence inside.
But not the same kind.

Chapter 7. Paper That Cannot Lie

He found the letter on the morning of the third day.

Nothing unusual: a white envelope, no stamp, no sender’s name. Slipped carefully under the door. The address was handwritten — the same handwriting he had searched for with his eyes in the air, in glass, in dreams.

He didn’t open it right away. For several minutes, he just held it. Then he sat down. Slowly tore the edge. The paper was thin, slightly rough. Not from the world of offices and memos — but from the world of confessions.

*“Sergey.

I didn’t know I could still tremble just from seeing my own name. But now I do.

You said, ‘I didn’t know where you were.’ But I always knew. Not the address, not the floor. I knew — you stayed there, where you once looked at me for the first time. Not with your eyes. With your soul.

I stayed silent for a long time. I was afraid. I got used to it. I got used to living without words, without touch, without you. That’s a terrifying habit — to live around life. But yesterday, you said my name. And I realized I’m still here. Alive.

I’m not writing to ask for anything. I don’t expect replies, or promises, or drama. I just want you to know: I remember. I haven’t forgotten a single day. And if someday you look out the window and don’t see emptiness — know this: it’s me. Looking at you again.

— L.”*

He read the letter three times. Then just sat, unmoving. Everything around him grew quiet. Even the ticking of the clock faded. Only the letters in his hands kept sounding — like a voice he hadn’t heard in years.

He didn’t know what to do. For the first time in all this time, he truly didn’t know. Everything he had grown used to collapsed. All that remained was this letter — and her name. Not spoken aloud, but written by the hand he knew by heart.

He stood. Walked to the window. Stared out for a long time.

Then he placed the letter on the windowsill.
Next to it — his old note: “Are you still out there?”

Now, the answer was lying beside it.

Yes. She is.
And she remembers.

Chapter 8. She Came

He heard the knock — not on the door, but on his heart. Strange, hesitant. Not fists, not a bell — a soft tapping, like someone who still wasn’t sure they wouldn’t turn back.

Sergey opened the door almost immediately. She stood on the threshold — in a gray coat, no makeup, with that same look in her eyes. The one that had started it all.

“Hi,” Lera said.

He didn’t know what to say. He simply stepped aside. She entered.

The apartment was the same as before. But cleaner. No smell of cigarettes. No unnecessary things. Almost like a monastery. She noticed it right away — her letter was still on the windowsill.

“I read it ten times before I left it there,” she said.

“I read it… and couldn’t throw it away,” he replied.

They sat across from each other. Silent.

He didn’t know if he could ask: Are you alone? Did you leave him? Is it too late?

She didn’t know if she could say: I still love you.

The words hovered in the air. Fragile. Careful.

“I came,” she said.

“I know.”

He stood up. Put on the kettle. Opened the cupboard and took out two cups — from the old set. Lera ran her fingers across the windowsill. The same windowsill. The same window. Only now there was no glass between them. Just air.

He placed her tea in front of her. She looked at the steam as if it were the smoke of the past.

“All this time, I was afraid you’d forget me,” she said.

“I was afraid you’d remember me,” he answered softly. “Because then everything would begin again.”

“And now?”

“It already has.”

She nodded. Her eyes were full — not with pain, but with recognition.

“I’m not asking for anything, Sergey. No promises. No decisions. I just… couldn’t stay silent anymore.”

He took her hand. Carefully, as if touching something very dear and long-lost.

“Then stay silent, if you want,” he said. “Just… don’t leave. Not yet.”

They sat quietly, like before, between the windows.
Only now — in the same room.
And time moved on.
Without disturbing them.

Chapter 9. Almost Happiness

They started with walks.

It all looked innocent: two adults walking slowly, as if testing the ground beneath their feet. They talked about the weather, about movies, about how expensive the bakery had become. But between the words ran another conversation — invisible, spoken in gestures, in pauses, in glances.

He didn’t ask, Did you leave him? She didn’t say, I’m free.

They were simply together. At last.

Sometimes Lera brought apples. Sometimes he bought her coffee — the one with cinnamon, which she had once called “the smell of home.” In the evenings they sat by his window. That glass had once held eternity. Now — a beginning.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch more than necessary. But it was clear: this was more than touch. This was agreement. Quiet. Wordless. Deep.

“Are you afraid?” he asked one evening.

“All the time,” she said. “But I’m more afraid of losing this. Again.”

He would wake up at night and watch her sleep. Peacefully, without masks, without armor. She looked different now. Something extra had gone. What remained was her — the real her. The woman who had once stood between windows, unaware someone was already saving her with a single look.

One day Lera said:

“He understood.”

“Your husband?”

She nodded.
“I never said anything. But he saw. And let go. No drama. No words. He just… stepped out of my life. Like a shadow.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little. But it’s a different pain. Not dirty. Not clinging. Clean. Like forgiveness.”

He said nothing. Then softly:

“I thought we’d never make it here.”

“We didn’t make it,” she said. “We were reborn.”

They started driving out of town. Listened to music in the car. Not loud. He played old records, she sang along under her breath. He watched her fingers tremble on her knee. She watched how he gripped the wheel when she sighed.

Then one morning, over breakfast, she said:

“I rented a room nearby. For now. Just like that.”

He understood. Said nothing.

“I don’t want to disrupt your silence. I just want to be near. Not as a guest. As part of it.”

He took her hand.

“You’ve always been part of it. Now you’re just… here.”

Happiness doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t rush.
It whispers: “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Chapter 10. Silence

It happened simply. No fanfare. No rain on the windows. Just an ordinary evening. Green tea — the same, no sugar. Half a tangerine on the table, an open book they never read. The room was warm — too warm. Lera took off her sweater, remained in a thin shirt, and his eyes lingered on her shoulders. But there was no desire in them, no heat — only reverence. Like he was looking at an icon that had been returned.

She stayed silent for a long time. Then pushed the cup aside, looked him in the eye, calm and steady:

“I love you.”

Sergey froze. He didn’t understand at first. Then he panicked. Not because he didn’t feel the same — but because it was said aloud. What had lived inside him as something sacred, private, now became real. And that was terrifying. That demanded an answer. And he wasn’t ready.

He looked away. Then back. But said nothing.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t get angry. Didn’t get up or leave. She just nodded slowly.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “Not now.”

“Lera…”

“You don’t have to say anything if you can’t. I just wanted you to know.”

He closed his eyes. His forehead tightened. He wanted to shout, “I love you too!” — but his tongue was stone. His past held him in chains. And in that silence, he felt his own guilt more sharply than ever.

“You’re scared,” she said gently. “I was too.”

He only nodded.

“Then just hold my hand,” she said. “Let it speak for both of us.”

He took her palm. His fingers trembled. But he held on tightly. As if afraid that letting go would send him back — between the windows. Alone.

That night she slept soundly. He didn’t. He stared at the ceiling, listened to her breathing, and whispered into the dark:

“I love you too. I just can’t say it. Not yet. I’m sorry.”

Love didn’t take offense.
It stayed nearby.
Waiting.
Because it was real.

Chapter 11. The Voice

Sergey woke early, before dawn. He lay still, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet. Lera breathed peacefully; in her sleep, her hand slipped off the blanket. He touched her fingers gently. Warm.

Everything inside him trembled. He knew: if he didn’t say it today — he never would. Because love, carried too long in silence, turns into habit. And he didn’t want habit. He wanted her to know.

He got up, made coffee. Not to please her — but to keep from falling apart. In the kitchen, the air felt thick. Even the walls seemed to wait.

When she came in — in a robe, with messy hair — he was already at the table. He didn’t pretend to be calm. Just looked at her. Like it was the last time.

She sat down.

“You’re strange today.”

“I’ve made a decision,” he said.

“About what?”

He took a breath. Like before a dive.

“To tell the truth. I love you too, Lera.”

The words came out shaky. He didn’t know how they sounded. But he knew: he had said them. Finally.

She froze. Stared at him, unblinking. Then leaned in slowly.

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” he repeated. “From the very beginning. From that window. From the silence between us. I was just… afraid. Of everything. Of you. Of myself. Of losing it.”

“You won’t lose it now,” she said. “Only if you let it go yourself.”

He stood, came over, embraced her. She didn’t cry. He didn’t either. They simply held each other. And in both their chests — something eased. Almost calm. Almost light.

For the first time in years, love spoke aloud.
And it wasn’t thunder.
Wasn’t passion.
Wasn’t kisses against a sunset.

It was a voice that said:

“You’re home.”

Chapter 12. Without a Window

They rented a small apartment. Not for comfort — for a beginning. White walls, one table, one bed. And a window. Not facing her old apartment, not his. Just the yard. Plain. Meaningless. But now there was no glass between them.

The first days were strange. The silence — different. The touches — awkward. As if none of this had ever belonged to them. They were learning how to be together. Truly. Without poetry.

She made him dinner — he didn’t always eat. He brought her flowers — she didn’t always smile. But they were near each other. And that was enough. Almost.

But fear still lived in the corner. It hadn’t left. It was just quiet. And one day, it woke.

“Do you still think about what we might lose?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“All the time.”

“And?”

“I’m afraid. That you’ll leave. That this is temporary.”

Lera stayed silent for a long while. Then said:

“And I’m afraid you’ll stay — but not all the way.”

Those words hit deep. Deeper than blame.

The next day, she vanished. Not forever. Just for a day. Didn’t say where. Just left a note:

“I need to think. Without you. Not because of you. But for us.”

Sergey sat all day like broken. Smoked without tasting. Stared through the new window — not theirs. And understood: if she didn’t come back, he wouldn’t make it. The second time isn’t about survival. It’s about death.

He wrote a letter. One line.

“I’m no longer afraid of you. I’m afraid of life without you.”

Left it on the windowsill.

Lera returned that night. Barefoot. Tired. In her eyes — resolve. Not anger. Not tears. Just the answer.

“I can’t live without you,” she said. “Even if it hurts. Even if it’s hard. I choose you. Again. And every day — I’ll keep choosing.”

He held her. Silently.

And he knew: everything that once lived between the windows — now lived between their hearts.

No barriers.
No waiting.
No watching eyes.
Just them.

And that old window — it was empty now.
No one looked through it anymore.
Because everything they ever needed to see —
they had already seen in each other.

Chapter 13. Daylight

The new life didn’t start with fireworks.

It was slow. Quiet. Measured.
The way spring enters the world: unnoticed, then suddenly everywhere.

They bought curtains together. Watered the flowers. Burned the soup once and laughed for real. Slept under the same blanket, finally not out of fear of loneliness, but out of the need to be close — to breathe the same night.

Sergey stopped looking at the past like a wound. Now it was a road — long, strange, but one that led here.

Sometimes they argued. Silly things. A teacup left in the wrong place. Forgotten groceries. But there was no venom. They had already lived through too much silence to ever let bitterness settle.

Lera started humming again in the mornings. Songs with no words. Sometimes just notes, barely audible. He listened from the kitchen, sipping his coffee, and thought: this is what peace sounds like.

Once she found his old notes — folded papers, tucked into a book.

“Are you still out there?”
“I’m alive. But this isn’t it.”
“Dreamt of your voice.”

She read them without saying a word. Just looked at him and nodded. As if putting each piece of him back into place.

They still didn’t speak much about what had been. They didn’t need to.

Everything important now was in the way he touched her wrist.
In the way she laid her hand on his back when he couldn’t fall asleep.
In the tea, slightly too sweet — just how he never asked for, but always drank.

One evening, sitting by their new window, Sergey whispered:

“You know what I’m most afraid of now?”

“What?”

“That I’ll wake up. And none of this will be real.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned her head on his shoulder.

“It is real,” she said. “Even if it doesn’t last forever — it’s real now. That’s enough.”

Chapter 14. The Letter That Wasn’t Sent

Spring passed. Summer too.
Autumn came gently, like an old friend who didn’t want to stay long.

One morning, Lera opened a drawer and found the letter she’d never sent.

The one she’d written in that other city.
The one where she had told him she loved him.
That she had always loved him.

She sat on the floor. Read it again. Every word felt new and old at once.

She thought about tearing it. Then about burning it. Then about finally giving it to him.

But instead, she did something else.

She placed it in an envelope, without a name, and left it under the mattress.
Not as a secret.
As a reminder: some things don’t need to be spoken twice.
Once was enough — if it changed everything.

Sergey found it weeks later.
He didn’t say anything.
Just held it in his hand and smiled.

That evening, when she walked into the kitchen, he looked at her and said:

“I remember that silence. And I remember how loud it was.”

She came up to him. Kissed his forehead.

“I’m here now,” she whispered. “No more silence.”

And truly — there wasn’t.

Chapter 15. One Window

The apartment had changed.

A few more books. Photos on the fridge. A second blanket, even though they always shared one. Life didn’t look dramatic. It looked lived-in.

And there was the window.

It no longer faced memories. No longer reflected absence.

Now, it opened onto a yard where children shouted, and pigeons strutted, and laundry fluttered like stories drying in the breeze.

They didn’t sit by it every day.
Sometimes they forgot it was there.
But on certain evenings — they still did.

Sergey would light a cigarette.
Lera would bring tea.
And they’d sit. Together.
Watching nothing in particular.
Saying little.
And knowing everything.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, Lera said:

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Of what?” he asked.

“Of this. Of being happy.”

He didn’t reply. He just took her hand.

Outside, the world moved slowly.
Inside, nothing had to.

They had lived between windows.
Now — they had one.

One window.
One room.
One life.
No more distance.

Just them.

And the silence — finally kind.

                THE END