The Window With the Yellow Curtain

The house on Linden Street had been empty for months, but every evening at exactly six o’clock, the single window on the second floor lit up behind a worn yellow curtain. No one knew why. There were no cars in the driveway, no footsteps on the porch, no sign that anyone had lived there since Mrs. Adeline Moore passed away.

Everyone except Jonah.

Jonah visited the house every Sunday, standing on the sidewalk with his hands deep in his coat pockets, pretending to just be passing by. But really, he came for the light—for the proof that something of his grandmother still lingered in the place where she had raised him after his parents left and never came back.

He hadn’t stepped inside since her funeral three months earlier. He wanted to, but every time he reached for the doorknob, the weight of memory pushed him back. The house smelled like her, sounded like her, felt too full of her absence.

But the light… the light behind the yellow curtain felt like a promise he couldn’t quite let go of.


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One Sunday in late autumn, Jonah arrived earlier than usual. The air tasted like rain and endings. He stood in front of the house, staring at the window.

He whispered, “Hi, Gran. I’m here.”

The words felt foolish, but they steadied him.

Then something unexpected happened: the shadow of a person passed behind the curtain.

Jonah’s breath stopped. He wasn’t afraid—he wanted more than anything for the shadow to be hers. But he knew better than to hope for miracles. He walked slowly up the old steps and touched the door. It swung open at his slightest push.

Inside, the house was quiet as a held breath.

He stepped into the living room and stopped. Sitting on the couch, staring back at him with wide brown eyes, was a girl who looked about thirteen. She had an oversized sweatshirt, tangled hair, and a backpack clutched like a shield.

They stared at each other.

“…Hi,” she said, uncertain.

Jonah swallowed. “This is my grandmother’s house.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I—I wasn’t trying to steal anything.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked softly. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Lily,” she said. “I… I knew Mrs. Moore.”

Jonah frowned. “How?”

Lily reached into her backpack and pulled out a folded letter. “She used to volunteer at the community center. I met her there. I didn’t have anyone. She… kind of looked out for me.”

Jonah’s chest tightened.

“She told me I could come here if I ever needed a safe place.”

He felt something warm and painful rise behind his ribs. “She told me the same thing.”

Lily hesitated. “I’m sorry. I’ll go. It won’t happen again.”

But Jonah heard his grandmother’s voice—clear as if she stood beside him.

Take care of people who need a home, Jonah. You know what it’s like.

He took a slow breath. “Lily… did you turn the light on every night?”

She nodded. “Mrs. Moore said she kept it on for you. In case you ever walked by.”

A tear slipped down Jonah’s cheek before he could stop it. His grandmother had been looking out for him even after she was gone. And Lily, this stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all, had been carrying out that last small kindness.

“You don’t have to leave,” Jonah said gently. “Not tonight.”

Lily’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

He walked to the window with the yellow curtain and pulled it aside. The street outside looked different from up here—not emptier, but waiting.

Jonah whispered, “Gran, we’re home.”

He didn’t know what would happen next. But he knew this: grief was heavy, but it didn’t have to be carried alone. His grandmother had given him one last gift—someone else who needed the kind of love she had taught him to give.

And for the first time in months, as the evening light glowed warm and golden through the yellow curtain, the house felt alive again.