The Window

The cool, fresh air of the night invades the house through its broken windows, bringing in the sweet, chemical scent of spring: a mix of a thousand different perfumes, which are the words of as many plants and trees, feverishly communicating with one another in the dark, in silence.

The scent comes in waves, as if the house were breathing. Actually, the house is breathing!

Jane senses it all, peering through the broken window glass. She does so in silence too, just like the plants and the trees outside. She listens to their mute conversations, their gossip and whisperings, their words of anger, of lovemaking and of longing. Their words come in waves with each breath that the house takes, and stick to the decayed wallpaper like amber. Here and there a firefly lights up the dark, as if trying to compete with the Queen of Fireflies, the Moon. All that interrupts the peaceful silence, is the nocturnal call of the Whip-poor-will, coming from the depths of the shrubbery.