The Window with the Blue Curtain

The old apartment building on Maple Street had seen better days.

Cracked walls, flickering lights, and neighbors who rarely spoke beyond polite nods.

In Apartment 3B lived Nadia, a retired schoolteacher who had grown used to silence.

Every morning, she opened her window — the one with the faded blue curtain — and watered the two small plants on her sill.

It was a ritual. The only thing that hadn’t changed since her husband, Omar, passed away three years ago.

She used to talk to him while watering them.

“Good morning, Omar. The jasmine’s growing again.”

Then she’d pause, as if waiting for a reply she knew would never come.

Across the narrow courtyard, in Apartment 4A, lived Arman, a young man in his early twenties.

He had just moved in — a university student, quiet and polite.

He worked late nights and rarely opened his curtains.

But one morning, as he sat at his desk, he heard something faint — a voice.

An old woman talking softly to her plants.

Her tone was calm, affectionate, like a song whispered to the world.

Every morning, it repeated — the same gentle routine.

And for reasons he didn’t fully understand, it made him feel… safe.

Weeks passed.

Then one morning, the voice didn’t come.

No sound.

No window opening.

The blue curtain stayed still.

He waited, uneasy.

Another day passed — still nothing.

On the third day, Arman finally went downstairs. He hesitated outside Apartment 3B, holding a loaf of bread he’d bought from the corner bakery.

He knocked.

No answer.

Just as he was about to leave, the door opened slightly.

Nadia stood there, wrapped in a shawl, looking pale.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He hesitated. “I… I live across from your window. I just… noticed you weren’t there the past few days.”

Her expression softened with surprise. “You noticed that?”

He nodded awkwardly, holding up the bread. “I thought maybe you could use some breakfast.”

For the first time in a long while, Nadia smiled — a small, tired smile, but real.

“Thank you,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

That morning, they sat together in her small kitchen, drinking tea that smelled of cardamom and quiet comfort.

She told him she’d caught a fever.

He told her about his studies, his long nights, and how he missed home.

It became a new ritual — morning tea, two voices where there used to be one.

Nadia found herself talking again — not to her plants this time, but to someone who listened.

And Arman, who had felt invisible in the big city, found warmth in her stories — the kind of peace that comes from being seen.

One rainy afternoon, the power went out.

The building sank into darkness.

Most people stayed inside, complaining.

But from across the courtyard, Arman saw a flicker of candlelight — the blue curtain glowing softly in the window.

Then, a knock on his door.

Nadia stood there, holding a lantern.

“Come,” she said. “I’ll teach you how to make soup the way Omar liked it.”

They spent the evening in her kitchen, surrounded by the gentle light of candles and the sound of rain.

She told him about her husband — how they’d met at a library, how they used to dance to old songs on rainy nights.

Arman listened quietly. Then, softly, he said, “You miss him.”

She smiled sadly. “Every day. But missing him has become part of my peace.”

He looked at her curiously. “Peace? How?”

She stirred the soup and said, “Because I finally learned that grief doesn’t end when love ends. It ends when love becomes gentle again.”

After that night, something changed.

They began leaving their windows open — hers with the blue curtain, his with a small cactus he’d bought just for her.

Sometimes they waved.

Sometimes they shared food across the courtyard using a little basket tied to a rope.

Sometimes they just left their lights on, quietly saying I’m here without words.

Months later, spring arrived.

The jasmine on Nadia’s windowsill bloomed again, white and fragrant.

One morning, Arman woke to find a note slipped under his door.

It read:

“Dear Arman,

I’ve gone to visit my sister by the sea for a while.

Keep the window open, won’t you?

Peace likes to visit open places.”

With love,

Nadia.”

He smiled, folded the note carefully, and placed it by his cactus.

Then he opened his window wide.

The blue curtain across the courtyard fluttered in the morning light — swaying softly, like a quiet promise kept.

Peace didn’t arrive all at once for either of them.

It grew in small gestures — a shared cup of tea, a loaf of bread, a window left open.

And sometimes, peace was not the absence of loss —

but the presence of kindness in its shadow.