Red window house

The sky seems to be painted with the colors of unspoken words.

A pale golden hue, woven with the stitches of silence.

Standing on that grassy slope on the mountain, you can see an old house—the house with the red windows. No one lives there, everyone says so. But still, something waits there. Something remembers.

When Mira arrived in the village, her suitcase had more questions than clothes. Her mother whispered about this house one day—“Alder House.” Her voice trembled, as if the name of the house contained a storm.

“Don’t go there,” her mother said. “Especially if you see the window burning.”

And after hearing such words, the human mind wants to be curious.

A Strange Beginning

The villagers don't look at Mira. She hasn't misbehaved, yet they are still uncomfortable. New people always bring changes.

She rents a room in a small shack near a spring. The landlady is an old woman whose words are like bent bamboo, and her tea tastes like thyme and old stories.

On the third night, Mira sees it.

A red light.

A soft, shy smile in the distant sky.

The light was coming from that window, from that old house—which hasn't even breathed for many years.

Mira walks behind her.

Of course she walks.

The Waiting House

The house greeted her in silence.

The gate was half open. Wild vines were all over the walls, as if they were talking in her ear.

She stepped inside.

The floor cried, as if remembering her.

And the air... oh, the air—full of old perfume and the smell of time.

A clock was ticking somewhere, but it was invisible. Then she found the house.

The house with the red window.

The window glass was not red, but the inner curtains were red—so the sunlight came through and painted the house with blood and silk.

There was a mirror in the house. And in the mirror Mira saw a “herself”—one she didn’t recognize.

A memory that isn’t yours

This was the moment—when the story became like a strange dream.

A letter was lying on the desk. The letter was written—Mira Eleanor Gray. His full name. But he didn't tell anyone in the village his name.

The letter read:

You are not the first to come looking.

But you may be the last.

This window not only looks out at the world, but also at the soul.

And your soul is like a beautiful broken glass.

Spend the night.

You will remember what you never knew.

He blinked. He read it again. He read it again.

For the third time, the last line read: Welcome. Home.

The beginning and the end

Mira spent the night in the red window room.

She dreamed—a girl, who looked like her, was running down a corridor, with stars in her hair. The girl was calling someone's name in the darkness. Maybe she had gotten lost at some point.

When she woke up, the mirror was covered.

The curtains—white.

Her suitcase was unpacked, her clothes were folded.

As if someone had come to tell her—you belong here now.

And the strangest thing?

A new picture was hanging on the wall.

The picture was of the red window room. Mira was standing by the window—smiling.

But she hadn't taken any such picture.