The Stillness Beyond the Window

The meadow was flawless. It unfolded in front of me like a painting come alive, every color sharp, every detail crystalline. The grass shimmered a hundred shades of green, wildflowers bloomed in pinks and yellows like carefully arranged brushstrokes, and the sky above melted from gold to blue so seamlessly it could have been poured from an artist’s hand.

I rested my palms on the cool windowsill and drank it in. This is it, I thought. This is the view I’ve always wanted.

For a few minutes—or what I thought was minutes—I stood there, memorizing it. The field. The light. The way the hills rose and fell like sleeping giants under a perfect sky. It felt like a promise, something urging me to stay and never look away.

But after a while, something pressed at the edge of my thoughts.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that prickles your skin. There were no bees hovering around the flowers, no chirps of birds darting between the trees, no whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze. Even the clouds—pale, soft, beautiful—were motionless, as if nailed into place.

I frowned and leaned closer. That’s when I noticed the deer.

It stood at the far edge of the meadow, a young one, legs delicate and slim. Its head was lowered toward a patch of clover, but it wasn’t eating. It wasn’t moving at all. My eyes caught on its ribs—no rise, no fall. Its body was frozen, like a figurine.

And its eyes—black, round, glossy—were fixed in my direction.

I shifted uncomfortably. The deer didn’t.

Time stretched thin. My chest began to ache, as though I’d been holding my breath. Maybe I had. I glanced at the sky, hoping for distraction. The sun still glowed low, the horizon still bathed in amber light. But it hadn’t shifted. Shadows hadn’t lengthened. Nothing in the scene had changed since the moment I arrived.

It wasn’t a view. It was a still life.

The thought landed heavy in my mind, and the longer I looked, the more it made sense. Everything outside the glass existed in some rigid perfection, beautiful but brittle, as though it couldn’t bear the weight of motion.

Then the deer twitched.

Just a fraction of an inch—its neck jerking unnaturally, like a puppet tugged by its strings. My heart hammered. I took a step back from the window.

The deer twitched again, sharper this time. Then again. Its head lifted by degrees, stiff movements clicking through its body until it was staring straight at me.

A sound filled the air, faint at first—a hum, mechanical, droning, as though hidden machinery had whirred awake.

The meadow didn’t move, but it shivered, almost imperceptibly, like a surface rippling under glass. I clutched the sill to steady myself, every instinct screaming don’t look away.

The deer’s mouth opened.

Not wide—just enough that I could see the inside of its lips, black like oil. A crackle of static spilled out, sharp and wrong, like a radio struggling to tune.

My skin went cold.

I staggered backward, and in that instant the meadow seemed to lurch forward. The colors grew brighter, impossibly bright, as though the world beyond the window was pressing itself closer, forcing me to see it more clearly.

“Wake up.”

The voice came from nowhere—or everywhere. It buzzed through the hum, layered and distorted, like multiple voices speaking at once.

I spun around, heart in my throat, but the room behind me was empty. When I turned back, the window wasn’t a window anymore. The frame was still there, but beyond it stretched nothing but blank white light, swallowing the meadow whole.

I blinked, and for a split second, I thought I saw the deer standing in that light—still watching.

Then everything vanished.

Darkness swallowed me.

When my eyes opened again, I was lying in bed. The hum had faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of my own breath. My fiancé, Daniel, leaned over me, his hand on my shoulder, his face pale with worry.

“You were shaking,” he whispered. His voice was raw. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

I sat up slowly, my skin damp with sweat, my heart still racing. Behind him, the bedroom window glowed with the soft gray light of early morning.

I told myself not to look. Not yet.

But of course, I did.

And outside, the meadow waited—perfect, still, unchanged.