The light in the window

Every evening, the woman across the lane switched on a little lamp in her front window. It was a plain lamp with a yellow shade. Nothing about it asked to be noticed.

Mira noticed anyway. On her late walks home from the library, she counted the familiar things: the crooked gate, the tree lifting the pavement, the yellow square of light. On nights when she had read too much and spoken too little, that window made the last stretch feel shorter.

Then, one Thursday, it was dark.

She slowed down. The next evening it was dark again. On Saturday she bought an extra loaf from the bakery and knocked on the door before she could talk herself out of it.

The woman answered wearing a cardigan with one sleeve turned inside out. Behind her, books covered nearly every surface.

“I wondered if you could use this,” Mira said, holding up the loaf. It sounded less awkward than explaining that she missed a stranger’s lamp.

“The bulb’s gone,” the woman said, following her glance. “I keep forgetting to buy another.”

They ate bread at the kitchen table. Mira learned that the lamp had belonged to the woman’s sister, and that the woman left it on because she liked to imagine someone was still on their way home.

On Sunday, Mira brought a new bulb.

That evening, there were two small yellow windows on the lane. Mira had moved her desk lamp to the sill. She did not know whether anyone would notice. She liked the idea that they might.