Title: Through the Midnight Window

By: []

The Beginning

It always starts with the window.

Some people are afraid of mirrors, some of the dark, but my fear has always been tied to that rectangle of glass just above my desk. When night falls, the window stops being a view to the world and becomes a reflection—an endless stage where shadows can appear without warning.

That fear became real one autumn night.

The Challenge of Darkness

I was seventeen, staying up too late with headphones pressed tight against my ears, when the first sound came. A faint tap tap tap on the glass. At first, I dismissed it as branches swaying in the wind. But the rhythm was too steady. Too intentional.

I muted my music.

The second tap followed. Then silence. Then a third.

I wanted to look. I didn’t want to look. The challenge was simple but terrifying: do I keep my eyes fixed on the safe glow of my computer, or do I turn toward the darkened glass?

What I Saw

Eventually, curiosity won.

The reflection showed only me—pale face, wide eyes, the faint light of my desk lamp stretching across the room. But beyond that reflection, outside in the real night, something shifted. A shape too tall to be a person, too thin to be a tree.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

I turned on every light in the room, even the one in the hallway. The taps didn’t return, but the silence pressed heavier than sound ever could.

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Years Later

It has been a decade since that night. Rationally, I know there are explanations: wind, imagination, tricks of reflection. But even now, I can’t sleep without leaving one light on somewhere in the house.

That’s the strange thing about challenges—we don’t always choose them. Sometimes they choose us. And when they do, they leave marks that time cannot erase.

Why We Leave the Light On

For years, I thought leaving the light on was about safety. That as long as shadows had no corner to hide in, I would be safe. But as I grew older, I realized the light is less about fear of the dark and more about remembering who I was in it.

When I leave the light on, I’m not just keeping monsters away—I’m keeping my younger self company. That trembling teenager who stared at a window and felt both terrified and alive.

Light reminds us that challenges are not always meant to be conquered. Sometimes they are meant to be carried, like a story told from one night to the next.

A Universal Fear

You might not share my fear of windows. Maybe yours is the sound of footsteps behind you when you’re sure you’re alone. Or the way silence grows heavy when a house settles at midnight. Or perhaps it’s not fear at all, but memory—the challenge of remembering someone you lost whenever the night feels too quiet.

These fears and memories may differ, but they connect us. They remind us that every human heart beats faster when faced with the unknown.

The Real Lesson

The night at the window didn’t just teach me about fear. It taught me about choice.

We can choose to shut the curtains and pretend nothing waits outside. Or we can look, trembling but unbroken, into the darkness. We might not like what we see, but that act of looking—that decision to face the unknown—is where strength begins.

And when the fear lingers, when the echoes follow us through the years, we can choose to leave the light on. Not as a surrender, but as a reminder: we survived.

Conclusion

The midnight window is still there, of course. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it longer than necessary, waiting for another tap, another shadow. It hasn’t returned.

But if it ever does, I know now what I’ll do. I won’t hide. I won’t run.

I’ll meet the challenge the same way I did the first time—heart racing, eyes wide, light burning. Because that’s what it means to live: not avoiding the unknown, but learning to walk with it.