The Window Light

The old apartment building stood quietly at the end of the street, half-forgotten by time. Its walls were faded, balconies chipped, and the elevator, as usual, refused to work. The residents had long stopped expecting it to.

And yet, despite the tired bricks and creaking staircases, there was something strangely comforting about it — especially in the evenings, when the city’s chaos softened into a hum and one particular window on the third floor glowed with a steady, golden light.

That window belonged to Mrs. Hina.

She was the kind of person people described as “old-fashioned,” though not unkindly. Her hair was always neatly tied in a silver bun, her clothes clean and simple, and her home always smelled faintly of cardamom and rose water. She had lived in that apartment for nearly forty years — long enough to have watched the neighborhood grow, children become adults, and strangers become friends.

She loved two things deeply — her late husband’s old sitar that sat in the corner of her living room, and her balcony garden.

Every morning, she would stand outside, gently watering her plants while greeting neighbors passing by below. Her laughter — soft and melodic — often drifted into nearby windows.

But lately, the laughter had gone quiet.

Amir, who lived directly above her, was the first to notice.

He was twenty-five, a freelance graphic designer who spent most of his days staring at screens. He had grown up in the same building — had once been the little boy who came home from school to find Mrs. Hina offering sweets from her tin box, her eyes crinkling with warmth.

But life had gotten busy. Deadlines, distractions, and the quiet loneliness of adult life had filled his days. He barely noticed the people living around him anymore.

Until one evening, when he came home late and realized — for the first time in years — that Mrs. Hina’s window was dark.

At first, he thought nothing of it. Maybe she’d gone to visit her son. Maybe the power was out.

But the next evening, the light was still off. The balcony plants looked dry, their leaves drooping, their soil cracked.

Something inside him felt uneasy.

The following morning, he stood in front of her door, hesitant. He wasn’t sure what he’d say — “Hello, I noticed your light was off”? That sounded awkward, almost intrusive. Still, he raised his hand and knocked softly.

There was silence at first. Then, slow footsteps approached, and the latch clicked.

The door opened just a little.

“Oh… Amir beta,” she said, her voice thinner than he remembered. “You’re still living upstairs?”

He smiled, relieved to see her. “Yes, Aunty. I just wanted to check on you. I hadn’t seen you outside for a few days.”

She gave a faint laugh. “Ah, these old bones don’t move like they used to. And the noise out there—it’s too much for me these days.”

Amir nodded. “Can I bring you anything? Groceries maybe?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, no. You young people have your own worries. I’m fine.”

But as she spoke, he noticed the dust gathering on her window, the quiet in the room behind her, the empty shelf where her teacups used to be.

He smiled softly. “Then maybe I can visit you sometimes? I promise I won’t make noise.”

Mrs. Hina’s eyes softened — the kind of softness that came from being seen. “Only if you promise to bring stories,” she said.

And that was how it began.

Amir started visiting every evening after work. Sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes an hour.

At first, their conversations were simple. She would ask about his work, and he would tell her about the projects he was struggling with. She would scold him gently for skipping meals, and he would pretend to be offended.

But slowly, the walls of politeness faded.

She began sharing her stories — her late husband, who used to play the sitar and fill the house with music; her only son, who now lived in Canada and called once every few months; the neighbors who had come and gone; and the small joys that still made her smile — the first sip of morning tea, the laughter of children playing in the street, the sound of rain against the window.

In return, Amir shared his own worries. The uncertainty of freelancing, the pressure to succeed, the quiet ache of living alone in a fast-moving city.

Their talks grew deeper, like a song building softly, one note at a time.

One evening, as they sat by the window sipping tea, she asked, “Do you ever stop and listen, Amir?”

He looked puzzled. “Listen to what?”

“To silence,” she said, her gaze distant. “It has its own kind of music. That’s where peace hides.”

Amir thought about her words long after he left. That night, for the first time in months, he turned off his phone, dimmed the lights, and simply sat by his window. He listened — to the hum of the city, the soft whir of a ceiling fan, the distant echo of a call to prayer. And for the first time, he felt still.

Weeks turned into months. Amir’s visits became a quiet ritual.

Sometimes they sat in silence, sipping tea. Other times, she would hum old songs while he sketched her plants or worked on his laptop at her table.

One day, she showed him the sitar — old, but still beautiful, resting under a layer of dust.

“Play it,” he urged.

She smiled wistfully. “It’s been years. My fingers aren’t what they used to be.”

But she picked it up anyway. Her hands trembled at first, but as her fingers brushed the strings, a soft, delicate sound filled the room — hesitant, but alive.

The melody was simple, imperfect — yet something in it reached deep into Amir’s chest. It was the sound of a memory — of love, of loss, of quiet resilience.

When she finished, the silence that followed was full — full of things that didn’t need to be said.

“That,” she whispered, setting the sitar down, “is what peace feels like.”

As time passed, neighbors began noticing the change.

Mrs. Hina’s balcony bloomed again — new flowers, fresh soil, green leaves catching sunlight. The children of the building began visiting her too, eager to hear her stories or taste her sweet parathas. Sometimes, she even sat downstairs in the courtyard, laughing with other elders, her eyes alive again.

The building, once quiet and distant, began to feel like a community again.

It all started with a knock on her door.

Then, one cold January morning, Amir noticed something unusual.

Her window light — always glowing warmly in the evenings — was still on at dawn.

Concerned, he went downstairs and knocked softly. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing.

The neighbor from across the hall opened her door, her expression solemn. “She passed away last night,” the woman said quietly. “In her sleep. Peacefully.”

Amir froze. The words didn’t sink in at first.

He walked into her apartment one last time. The air still smelled faintly of jasmine tea. The radio was still playing — an old classical tune — and the sitar rested gently beside her armchair. Her teacup was half-full.

She had left the world just as she lived in it — softly, quietly, at peace.

For a long time, Amir sat by her window, unable to move. Outside, the morning sun spilled across the buildings. The city stirred awake.

But in that moment, everything felt still.

He remembered her words — “Listen to the silence.”

And he did.

In that silence, he found her presence — not in body, but in warmth, in memory, in the light that still shone through the window.

That evening, he went to the hardware store and bought a small golden lamp — the same shade of warm yellow that used to glow from her window.

He placed it on her balcony, next to the sitar and her favorite teacup. And when night fell, he turned it on.

The building, once shadowed in grief, seemed to breathe again. People walking by paused to look at the light — familiar, comforting, like she had never really left.

Weeks later, Amir moved into her apartment. He couldn’t bear to see it empty.

He kept her plants alive, her books neatly arranged, her sitar in the same corner. Every evening, he brewed tea for two — one cup for himself, one for her, which he placed by the window.

And sometimes, when the city grew too loud or life too heavy, he’d sit there and whisper the same words she once told him:

“Peace hides in silence — you just have to listen.”

Months passed. Seasons changed. But the window light never went out.

On nights when the street outside was dark and lonely, passersby would look up and see that one glowing window — steady, golden, alive.

Some said it was a memorial. Others said it was a symbol of hope.

For Amir, it was something simpler — a reminder that peace could be found not in big gestures or perfect lives, but in small acts of care, in kindness shared between hearts.

Every evening, he left the lamp on.

Not because the world needed light — but because he knew someone, somewhere, might be walking home, lost in thought, needing a small sign that peace still existed.

And when they looked up at the window, they’d see it — warm, gentle, eternal.

The window light.