The Window Between Us

Every evening, Mr. Kareem sat by his window with a cup of tea.

He watched the street below — the narrow alleyway filled with vendors, children, and voices echoing between old brick walls.

He had lived in the same apartment for thirty years. The window was his world now — a place to watch life without joining it.

Across the street, another window faced his.

It belonged to Ali, a young man who had moved in three years ago.

For months, they had barely nodded at each other. Then one afternoon, when the city lost power, Ali lit a candle — and lifted it toward Kareem’s window as if to say, “Are you alright over there?”

Kareem smiled for the first time in weeks and nodded.

That was how it began — two lives, connected by glass and silence.

Every evening after that, Ali would open his window to let the evening air in, and Kareem would do the same.

They began waving, sharing smiles, sometimes even holding up cups of tea in a silent toast.

But one day, that small peace shattered.

A heated argument broke out on the street below — two neighbors shouting about a parking space. Kareem, already weary from the noise of the world, slammed his window shut.

Ali looked across at him, surprised, and tried to gesture for calm. But Kareem, frustrated, shook his head and turned away.

That night, he didn’t open his window at all.

Days passed. The window stayed closed.

The silence between them grew heavy, almost angry.

Kareem missed their small connection — but pride kept him from reaching out.

Then one evening, as he sat in the dark, he noticed a small movement outside.

Across the street, Ali was hanging a little sign in his window.

It read:

“Peace?”

Kareem stared at it for a long time. His chest tightened — a strange mix of guilt and warmth.

Slowly, he took out a notebook and wrote on a torn page:

“Yes.”

He held it up.

Ali smiled and raised his tea cup.

The light between them returned.

Over the weeks that followed, their window friendship deepened.

Sometimes, when the call to prayer echoed through the neighborhood, they’d both stand quietly, eyes closed, facing the same direction.

Other times, they exchanged notes.

Ali would tape drawings to his glass — sketches of birds, clouds, and streets full of laughter.

Kareem began writing little poems in return — simple ones, about morning light and second chances.

Neither said a word aloud.

But every glance, every small gesture, was a conversation.

Then one afternoon, the news spread through the street: Ali was moving away.

He had gotten a new job in another city.

That evening, the window stayed dark for a long time — until Ali finally appeared, holding up a folded paper.

He pressed it against the glass, then waved goodbye.

Kareem nodded, too choked to smile.

The next morning, Ali’s window was empty.

A few days later, Kareem found a letter slipped under his door.

Dear Mr. Kareem,

I wanted to thank you. In a city full of noise and strangers, your window was my quiet place. You reminded me that peace isn’t about avoiding people — it’s about seeing them, truly seeing them.

You helped me believe again that kindness still exists in small spaces.

Please don’t stop opening your window.

— Ali

Kareem folded the letter carefully and placed it near his window.

The next evening, he brewed two cups of tea out of habit.

He placed one on the sill beside him and whispered, “For you, my friend.”

Then he looked out at the empty window across the street and smiled softly.

Because sometimes, peace isn’t found in grand gestures or perfect endings.

Sometimes it’s found in a quiet ritual — a shared glance, a lifted cup, a promise kept.

And so, every evening, Mr. Kareem still sat by his window — the tea steaming gently beside him, the city alive with sound.

Waiting for another small light across the way.