The Window That Waited for December

The first snow of December fell quietly over the small mountain town of Lornhill. The roofs turned white, the streets softened, and the entire world felt like it had been placed under a blanket of cold peace. Yet inside the old Willow Apartment building, a single window glowed softly every night — Room 204.

People in town whispered about it.

“Someone is waiting.”

“Someone is praying.”

“Someone never gave up.”

But no one really knew the truth.

Except for a woman named Hira, who had returned to Lornhill for the first time in twelve years.

Hira stepped out of the taxi, her breath turning to mist in the frozen air. She stared at the old willow tree standing in front of the apartment building — the same tree she used to sit under during her teenage years. Time had changed everything, yet somehow, it had also changed nothing.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and climbed the stairs to Room 204. The hallway smelled like old paint and memories. When she reached the door, her fingers trembled.

Would it still be the same?

Would anything be waiting for her?

She knocked once.

Silence.

Then twice.

Still silence.

Finally she opened the door with the old key she never threw away.

The room was cold, untouched. Dust floated in the beam of light coming from the window. Her breath caught in her throat. Nothing had changed — the same wooden desk, the same blue curtains, and in the corner, the same metal chair where her father used to sit and tell her stories.

Twelve years ago, she left this town after her father passed away. She promised herself she would never return, because every corner of the room reminded her of him. But now, with her life falling apart — her job gone, her engagement broken — she had nowhere else to run.

She sat down on the metal chair and let her eyes travel around the room. Something felt strange. The window looked different, almost… expectant. As if it had been waiting for her.

Suddenly she noticed a thin line of paper sticking out from under the window frame.

A letter?

Her heart thudded as she pulled it free.

The envelope was old, yellowish, and on the front, written in her father’s handwriting, were the words:

“For Hira — When December Brings You Home.”

Her knees weakened. She sat, staring at the letter, unsure if she was ready to open it. Finally, she inhaled deeply and unfolded the page.

---

“My dearest Hira,”

“If you have returned, it means the world has taken something from you. Life often does that. But listen to me carefully: December is not only the month of endings — it is the month of returning.”

“I know you run from pain. You try to save everyone but forget to save yourself. I worry that one day the world will tire your gentle heart.”

“So I left this letter for the day you would need a reminder: your worth does not decrease when life becomes heavy.”

“Look at the window, Hira. It will guide you.”

“— Your father.”

---

Tears filled her eyes.

The window? Guide her? How?

She stood up and walked toward it. Snow was falling softly outside the glass, covering the town in a silver silence. As she touched the cold windowpane, something reflected on the opposite side of the street — a small bookstore.

A bookstore?

Her father used to take her there every Sunday.

But the sign looked new.

She hesitated only a moment before pulling on her coat and stepping out into the snow. The cold bit at her cheeks as she crossed the street, but her heart felt strangely warm.

The bookstore door creaked open when she pushed it. Inside, the smell of old paper and wood dust wrapped around her like a memory.

An elderly man behind the counter looked up.

“Hira?”

She froze. “Do I… know you?”

He smiled gently. “You knew me when you were eight. I was your father’s friend. He told me you would come one December.”

She blinked in confusion. “He… said that?”

The old man nodded. “He left something here for you.”

He walked to a shelf, reached behind a row of books, and pulled out a thick journal tied with a blue ribbon.

Hira swallowed. “What is this?”

“Your father’s last journal,” the man said softly. “He wrote it for you

Her hands trembled as she held the heavy book. She felt like she was holding a beating heart.

She opened it.

The first page read:

“The Window That Waits.”

“Every December, I will place a candle in the window of Room 204. A small light, just in case Hira ever finds her way back home.”