The Circle of the Window

The pale morning light filtered through the perfect circle of the window, hesitant, as if unsure about crossing the threshold. In the air, particles of dust swirled in slow spirals, moving in sync with the solitary ticking of the clock on the wall.

Elias sat on a wooden chair that groaned under his weight, holding a cup of cold tea. His eyes were fixed on the circular window, as if it were more than glass, more than a frame for the outside world—perhaps a portal, or an inverted mirror.

He knew it well. For years, it had been the focal point of his nights and early mornings. Yet, that morning, something was different. It wasn’t the glass or what it reflected—it was Elias himself.

Five years earlier, he had arrived at the cabin with little more than a backpack and a dense silence that seemed to cling even to the folds of his clothing. His past, nebulous and distressing, was carefully tucked away in his memory—a shadow he avoided confronting directly.

In the early months, Elias lived like a hermit. He chopped wood, tended a small garden, and wandered along abandoned forest trails. Solitude was both a choice and a consequence; he wasn’t sure if he had decided to isolate himself or if something greater than his will had pushed him to it.

At night, he would sit in the creaking chair with a cup of lukewarm tea and stare at the window. At first, the view felt suffocating. The circle confined his world: tall trees blocked the horizon, the orange sky lingered at dusk, and the dirt path vanished around a distant curve. Time seemed frozen there, immutable and resistant to any intervention.

Elias, however, was a man attuned to details—or perhaps the details were his way of escaping. Over the months, he began to notice the subtle dynamism within the stillness. The sun’s reflection on the glass shifted with the seasons. Leaves danced in the wind in choreographed movements. Birds came and went, fragments of a time Elias could no longer measure.

Gradually, he began to anticipate these moments. The visit of a bird became an event; the sound of rain on the glass, a melody. Yet, no matter how intently he focused on these instances, a restlessness lingered. Something within him knew that these small external changes would never suffice.

That morning, the discomfort gnawing at him for days became impossible to ignore. He stood, letting the chair sway slightly, and grabbed his jacket. The jacket was old, saturated with the persistent smell of burnt wood. Elias opened the door, and the sharp cold greeted him.

The trail in front of the cabin seemed almost inviting, as if it had been waiting for him. The ground was soft beneath his feet, still damp from the previous night’s rain. With each step, the smell of wet earth grew stronger, mingling with the bitter aroma of dry leaves scattered along the path.

There was something in the wind—words, perhaps, whispers Elias couldn’t decipher. He walked slowly, each step deliberate, as if treading sacred ground.

As he walked, thoughts came in waves, each more intense than the last. He wondered if, by fleeing to the forest, he had truly escaped—or merely postponed the inevitable. Perhaps the distance he sought was just a way to place something as impenetrable as the forest between himself and his guilt.

The spot where he stopped was unremarkable: just a stone larger than the others, half-buried and covered in moss. But for Elias, that place held meaning. It was where everything had started—where he had decided to build the cabin.

Years ago, on that day, Elias had stumbled upon the stone by chance. He had been wandering through the forest, trying to leave behind the city and the weight of a mistake too heavy to bear.

The mistake was simple, almost banal, but its repercussions were profound. A word spoken at the wrong time. A moment of hesitation when courage was needed. A human failing, but to Elias, it had become a symbol of everything he believed was wrong with himself.

That day, standing before the stone, he had felt a strange connection to the place. The solitude of the forest seemed to mirror his own. He longed for a fresh start, far from everything, and the cabin became a symbol of that desire.

Now, standing there again, the place felt different. The silence, once a refuge, had become a mirror, revealing the truths Elias had worked so hard to avoid.

He wondered if, by fleeing to the forest, he had truly escaped anything. The cabin, the forest, the window—they weren’t just settings but parts of a silent cycle that always brought him back to the same point.

The wind blew stronger, making the trees whisper. Elias raised his eyes and saw a flock of birds crossing the sky. Their wings beat with a vigor that seemed to echo in his chest, as if calling him to follow.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, he felt something shift. He began walking back to the cabin, but his steps were different. There was no haste, but neither was there hesitation.

Upon arriving, the sunlight seemed brighter, almost intrusive. The circular window cast a perfect shadow on the floor—a frame of light and silence. Elias placed the kettle on the stove, waiting for its whistle as he gathered his thoughts.

From a drawer, he took out a yellowed sheet of paper and a pen. He sat at the table near the window and began to write.

The words came hesitantly, like fallen leaves in a stream, floating until they found rest. It wasn’t a letter of apology. It wasn’t a confession. It was something simpler and, at the same time, more difficult: an acknowledgment.

When he finished, he carefully folded the paper and placed it on a shelf next to a small stack of books. He didn’t know if anyone would ever read those words, but it didn’t matter.

That night, Elias sat once more in the creaking chair, now with a cup of hot tea in his hands. He looked at the window, but this time he wasn’t seeing the circle. He was looking beyond it.

The place was the same. The light, the dust, the silence—nothing had changed. But Elias was no longer the same.

When Elias closed his eyes, he no longer saw the circle as a boundary but as a portal. A reminder that even the most suffocating cycles can be broken, so long as one dares to look beyond.