the window .

a room of sparse frustrated boxes stacked to the ceiling watches her as she enters. lightly stained with dust, the floorboards attempt to stop creaking as her light toes stick to them momentarily, and their lines become imprinted in her skin for just a second before they fade away.

at the far end there is a large window with curtains where its eyes should be and glass where its hands once were. it blocks the wind to protect the dust, but can’t keep the sun from revealing the specs of its existence. she feels the same way; protected by the glass from all elements but exposure.

so she sits in the opposite corner and counts the walls, the boxes, the floorboards and the specs of dust. one by one until infinity and back again, just to pass time.

when the window decides to open its eyes the room illuminates and she stops counting. the understanding floods the space that was once dark, casting shadows on the areas behind the boxes and emphasises the need to vacuum.

cautiously she edges towards the boxes and touches them, reading their lables and searching for something she would want to remember. because in these piles of stored away memories there are small pieces of happiness waiting to be collected.

but only if it’s worth the price.

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