The Missing Window

CRACK.

The sledgehammer bangs against the wall loudly. Drywall crumbles like fresh powdered snow all around me. It smells burnt and chemical-like, reminding me of the hospitals I would visit with my mom as a child.

I wipe my brow and swing again.

CRACK.

The wall barely budges.

I’m going to be here all night at this rate.

I sigh and sit down on my couch, tossing the sledgehammer aside. It thuds against the floor and topples over.

In front of me, on the coffee table, a letter lies in mockery and I stare at it. I’ve read it over a thousand times. I could recite the damn thing by heart now. But, I find myself picking it up again. There must be something I’m missing.

Carefully, I unfold the two sheets. One is a blueprint of my apartment; the other, a letter from my landlord.

Dear Miss Delane,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I am writing in response to your recent inquiry regarding the number of windows in your apartment. After reviewing our records and conducting a visual inspection, we can confirm that your unit contains two windows, not three as initially believed.

To provide clarity and transparency, we have attached a copy of the blueprint for your specific apartment layout. This document accurately reflects the design and structural features of your unit, including the placement of windows and other architectural elements.

Please feel free to review the blueprint at your convenience. If you have any further questions or would like to discuss this matter in more detail, do not hesitate to reach out to us. We are happy to assist in any way we can.

Thank you for your attention to this matter, and for being a valued resident.

Warm regards,

Thomas Crowe

ALC Property Management Association

Flipping over to the blueprint, I review it carefully. The window in my bedroom is there. The one in the kitchen is also listed. But the one that should be in my living room? Nowhere.

I’d tried calling them several times, but they could never explain those flickers of light.

I left the apartment for nearly a year. Mom’s condition had worsened, needing constant care. The facility had no open beds at the time, and there was no one else. I packed what I could and left the rest behind. I was lucky to retain the apartment while I was gone. But when I returned, the third window was gone.

A bright light catches my eye, snapping my attention back up.

I stand and rush over to the wall, running my fingers across it. Where did it come from?

Pressing my face close to the drywall, I shift my stance left and right, up and down—trying to catch it again. But there’s nothing.

Letting out a groan, I snatch my sledgehammer and start smashing away again.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

After several hard swings, the wall finally gives—a shallow crater forms. I’ve never smashed through a wall before, but it feels off somehow. Like the wall isn’t just thick… it’s resisting.

My arms slump at my sides and they begin to tremble. The sledgehammer falls to the floor and I leave it where it lands. I can’t stay in this room anymore.

As if on cue, an angry growl erupts from my stomach. Right. I haven’t eaten all day.

I grab my coat and rush out my door, down the steps, and into the cold, crisp air. The wind prickles my skin and I throw my hood up.

As I walk across the street, the smell of fresh-baked bread wraps around me like a warm, comforting hug. The bakery is the only thing that feels normal right now. I decide to grab a bite to eat there while I regain my strength.

After several scones and a large cup of coffee, I leave the bakery and consider going for a walk to clear my head a bit more. But, a flash of light catches my eye above, and I look up. The windows on my building glint in the sun, and I pause.

I spot my own window and glare at the one beside it. Management explained the other window belongs to my neighbor – but it seems too close.

A dull throb starts behind my eyes, and I hurry my way back toward my building instead.

Once inside, a flashing red light greets me from the answering machine. I walk over and press play.

“Hi, Miss Delane. This is Dr. Kessler’s office calling. We noticed you missed the appointment this past week and just wanted to check in. If you’d like to reschedule, we have a few openings next Tuesday and Friday. Feel free to give us a call when you’re ready. Take care.”

I roll my eyes and reach to delete the message – but a faint flicker of light on the machine catches my attention.

I whip my head back toward the damn wall. A narrow beam of light shines through one of the cracks from earlier… before something from the other side blocks it.

Caught you.

I take off at full speed, grab the hammer, and swing it against the wall again without missing a beat.

CRACK.

That damn light.

CRACK.

The couch used to get a strip of afternoon sun — that’s how I remember it, before I had to rush back home to my mother. So, where the hell is it now?

CRACK.

“Do you have pictures?” my friend, Sybil asked, her voice echoing in my head — cold and sharp. Even she didn’t believe me about my missing window.

CRACK.

They’ll believe me once I show them.

CRACK.

The wall caves a little more and a sense of purpose floods through me. I swing again. And again.

Light bursts through the cracks, and I let out a triumphant roar.

I drop the hammer and shove as hard as I can against the wall. More light spills through the room as thin beams cut through dust and debris.

I press my face close again, trying to peer through. There’s…something. I can’t quite make it out, but it’s moving.

I groan and grab the hammer again to swing one last time—

CRACK.

—the wall finally gives way.

I cough and sputter as I drop the hammer. Dust and drywall completely fill the room—thick enough to choke on. For a moment, I can’t see anything. Then—a flicker of light.

I squint through the haze, but my eyes burn. I squeeze them shut and flail my arms wildly, attempting to push the smoke away. When I open them again, a thin beam of light cuts through the fog.

I step closer and reach out. Cool glass meets my hands as I press against it.

I found it.

A laugh bubbles up and bursts from my chest like a soda bottle that had been shaken for far too long, and I collapse to the floor.

I found my window.

I sit there for a long while, holding myself and rocking gently as the dust settles around me. I’m not crazy. I told them. I’m not crazy.

When I finally stand, the air is clearer—and I can see it properly now. The window glows softly in the dim light. My gaze shifts to the other side.

Something is wrong.

Confused, I press my face against the glass.

There—on the other side—is a living room. My living room. The same pale grey couch. The same coffee table. The same rug.

On the couch, a young woman sits curled up with a book—MY book. Her nose is buried in it, reading so intensely she hasn’t even noticed the wreckage just outside her window.

My window.

Her phone rings and she reaches for it without looking up.

“Hello?” she says, her voice achingly familiar.

“Yes, this is she. What about my mother?” A pause. There’s a muffled voice on the line. “But, I’ve read that many people with schizophrenia can live full lives on their own… It’s progressed too much?... No open beds?...”

She exhales softly, “Alright. I’ll make my way back home.” Another pause. “Hereditary?... I’ll make an appointment for myself as soon as possible. Thank you, Dr. Kessler.”

The woman hangs up, closes her book, and slips a bookmark in place. Her head moves slightly and the light from the lamp behind her flashes across my eyes.

Then, she stands and walks toward the window—until my own eyes are gazing back at me.