The Woman at the Window #love #romance #magic #freeread

​Snow has fallen since dawn, soft as rose petals, blanketing the trail behind my house in a hush only I can hear. From my window, I watch snowflakes gather on the branches of pine trees, on the railing of my deck, on the shoulders of the people who pass by. They are encumbered in heavy woolen coats, mittens, boots, and snow caps, some hats sparkling with glitter.

Couples mostly. Always couples.

They walk the trail hand in hand, their laughter rising like warm breath into the winter’s sky. I watch them with a familiar ache. It is one I have learned to live with. It hangs around my heart like a shroud that now feels like an old friend. I have grown older at this window, longing for something I no longer believe in.

Such strange irony, I think. I make my living writing about love.

I sip my cocoa, thinking I’d better hurry as I have another waiting for me in the kitchen, then take a bite of my biscuit. Two cups is all, and I make them both at the same time. A quick nuke and the cooler one is up to speed.

I settle my chin into the palm of my hand, thinking. I can craft a first kiss and build a slow-burning romance. I write bondmates into existence with nothing but my keyboard and a cup of coffee. But in my own life, love escapes me. Like a visitor, love came but didn’t stay.  

I get up from my chair and press my palm to the cold glass as the snow continues to fall.

“Just once,” I whisper to myself. “I’d like to write something real.”

Outside, the snow thickens, swirling in eddies, stirred by an unseen hand. The trail empties as the afternoon dims, and soon the world beyond my window is nothing but white and dying rays of sun that escape the cloud cover.

I turn away, ready to return to my desk, when my eye catches a flicker of movement. There is a figure at the edge of my yard. He’s not walking, not passing by, but staring up and into my window as if he knows I’m there.

But that’s impossible, I think. I haven’t turned the light on. I sit in the dark, the only light from my computer screen enveloping me. Perhaps that is enough.

I should close the shade or, at the very least, concentrate on what’s in front of me. I look away, glance at my keyboard, then chance another peek. The man wears a long coat dusted with snow. He’s tall, and his hair holds flakes that sparkle in the fading crepuscular rays. He continues to stare at my window, but I don’t feel fear because his face wears the calm recognition of finding something he’s been searching for. I laugh at my fantasy. But that is the way of writers. We are dreamers. 

I put on my glasses. I no longer care if he sees me or not. He has a kind face and a gentle smile. He shifts with grace as if he knows exactly where to put his body in relationship to mine.

Again. Impossible.

My breath catches. I know I should be frightened or, at the very least, confused. Instead, I feel warm, safe, and happy that he is watching my window and hopefully me.

I open my sliding glass door and step into the snow. The cold bites my cheeks, but I barely feel it. He watches me approach, his expression softening. I barely notice the snow falling into my hair, my glasses steaming up from my breath, and the weather’s frigid temperature.

“You’re real,” I say, though I’m not sure why. I’ve known you before. From a long time ago, when the hills were rolling green and thatch-roofed houses lined the cow paths. I have no idea why I think those thoughts

He nodded once. “You called for me.”

My heart thuds as anguish builds. “I’ve missed you.” I look up. “Why have you been gone so long?” His steady blue eyes keep me enthralled. All I can feel is that the loss I have carried with me is no longer there.

“You wished for love,” he says gently. “For something true. Something yours. I have always belonged to you.”

The snow shimmers, each flake catching the light like a tiny star. The air is charged, the world holding its breath.

I swallow hard. “Who are we?” I ask. I feel as if I’m dreaming, but we’ve been together many times and in many places.

He steps closer, and the warmth that radiates from him shocks me in the winter’s air.

“I’m the ending you’ve been writing toward,” he says. “The one you never believed you deserved.”

I laugh. Half of me believes him; the other half is filled with wonder. Yet there he is.

I hesitate, reaching out to touch his cheek gently, carefully, but a part of me waits for him to pull back. Before shame rises too far, I feel his skin, rough with stubble, warm with life.

I say, “This cannot be real.” And I note that he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t dodge my touch, but welcomes it. When I’m done, I rest my hand against my hip.

He reaches out, brushing a snowflake from my hair with a tenderness that makes my knees weak.

“Then let it be magic,” he murmurs.

In that moment, the snow around us rises in a swirling dance, wrapping us in a cocoon of shimmering white. I sense the world fall away, the cold vanish, and all that remains is the warmth of his hand and the beating of my heart.

For the first time in my life, I am not an observer in my own story.

I am the heroine.

I waited, and he came.

When the snow settles, I head inside, through the kitchen. I pause at the landing, appreciating the peace and the experience. I feel alone, but not all alone, though that makes no sense.  I glance at the table, two mugs of cocoa sit steaming, waiting, though I am certain I only made one other, and it would be cold by now.

I smile, thinking of pubs and warm beer.

Later, as I sit down to write, my words flow with a new type of truth.

​A truth I can finally believe in.