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Weekly Contest #337
The first rule of my mother’s house was that the windows were for light, not for looking. I learned that early, the way you learn the shape of a bruise: by touching it too often, by pretending it doesn’t ache until it does. The glass was old, bubbled in places, thick enough to warp the world into a soft lie. If I pressed my forehead to it, the yard became a painted thing—hedges trimmed into obedience, roses with their heads bowed, the iron gate watching like a shut eye. Beyond that: street, people, actual air. But the window was never meant ...
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