The Attic Window

It was early winter. We finally arrived at the old house, now freshly painted and scrubbed to near perfection. Sunlight illuminated the rooms, casting a warm glow that felt like the start of something new. Surrounded by nature, the rural setting made it a beautiful place for a family of three to call home.

The attic was the only place that didn’t smell new.

The air was thick, layered with dust and time. Cobwebs filled the corner spaces, and the floorboards creaked cautiously at every step. A few splinters poked out. The smell of aged wood slipped through the walls. To the right, there was one small square window–the original pane, with old bubbly, warped glass.

When I looked through the window, fields of grass stretched the horizon. Trees stood like soldiers across an abandoned, vintage home. The flowers were tall, and dried dirt stained the exterior side of the farmhouse. I fixed my gaze on a window, narrowing my eyes to see if anything more would come into view. A corner of a wooden desk caught my attention, and I grinned at the thought of exploring more.

I hurried down the stairs and found myself outside. I dashed forward–only to stop short. There was no farmhouse where I expected it to be. It felt like a moment of Deja vu. I circled back to the attic and peeked through the window again. The view hadn’t changed– the farmhouse, the trees, and stained dirt clinging over the exterior walls. Then, after a few minutes, something new happened. A flicker of light and a boy staring at me through the attic window.

I waved to the boy who looked about my age–sixteen, maybe. A teenager, just like me. He stared back, confused, then slowly raised his hand and waved in return.

Leaning closer to the glass, he breathed onto it, fogging the surface. Then, with one finger, he wrote:

“WHO ARE YOU?”

I breathed on the window until it fogged up, then wrote my name:

“MIA.”

He hesitated for a moment, then wrote his name:

“JOHN.”

I drew a smiley face, and he returned with a smiley face back.

We traded doodles on our windows everyday, sketching back and forth in silence. We didn’t speak much, but somehow, we understood each other perfectly. My parents often wondered why I spent so much time in the attic after school. I always made sure to finish my homework and write to John.

John was different. Quietly fascinating in a way, I couldn’t explain. He wore overalls and a flat cap, and he always had a candle burning on his desk. His smile was gentle, comforting in a way that settled something inside me.

I had always been a reserved girl, but with him, something opened up. It felt effortless and unfamiliar, like discovering myself I didn’t know was there. I think he could tell how shy I was, especially when I hid my face after drawing that one bird and accidentally giving it a third eye. I was afraid he would think I was silly, but instead we just laughed together. No judgement. That was us.

I wanted to know more about him.

Where was he from?

What year was it there?

Is he from the future?

John breathed softly onto the glass, steadying his hand until it left a clear handprint. He was trying to send a wave. I took a deep breath and pressed my hand against the window in return. The moment was quick, almost unreal, but I could feel the connection between us growing stronger. I had already fallen, and there was no turning back. It was as if we had known each other our entire lives.

I wiped my handprint with a fist and decided to write something new.

“WHAT YEAR IS IT?”

I could have asked any other day, but somehow, I sensed we were getting carried away with our doodles.

John stood up, and suddenly his head vanished from my sight. He shifted and pointed his finger at the window, writing clearly:

“1944.”

My eyes widened in disbelief. He must have seen the surprise on my face. He didn’t look as surprised, but maybe my feelings were clouding my judgement. I suspected he was better at hiding what he felt.

“2025.”

There we were–looking into the past and peering into the future. No one could explain it. He seemed far more mature than the other teenagers I knew. At that moment, I realized we were forbidden, bound by a special connection that spanned across time.

“ARE YOU AN ALIEN?”

John chuckled. He probably wondered why I hadn’t asked that the first time we saw each other.

“NO. ARE YOU?"

“NO!”

I shook my head and blinked a few times. What the heck was going on here?

“YOU LOOK GOOD FOR AN ALIEN,” he wrote, clearly flirting. He didn’t seem to care that we were in different times or that nothing about this made sense. Part of me almost wished he was an alien. Maybe then he could just abduct me, and none of this would matter.

He showed me books that he liked to read and wrote the titles for me. He was a reader, just like me. I started braiding my hair differently, putting on a little more make up. It became a routine–every day after school, after homework, we’d meet at our windows.

My parents kept asking who I was dressing up for. I told them I was just experimenting. They didn’t buy it. They’d been teenagers once too.

He discovered quickly that I was quiet, and that my favorite animals were penguins. I think it was mostly the way they waddled that got me. Over time, our conversations started getting more personal, more emotional. I showed him this lava lamp I had, and he was honestly amazed. He kept saying how cool the future was.

At one point, he tried to draw a penguin holding a lava lamp. It ended up looking more like a penguin holding a bowling pin, and we laughed about it for hours.

Eventually, I told him I usually kept to myself at school. It wasn’t because I had to–it was just easier that way. Then I admitted that he was really the only person I actually looked forward to talking to.

That’s when John said something that caught me off guard.

“I WISH I WENT TO SCHOOL,” he wrote.

I didn’t get it. Not at first.

He struggled to write the word that changed everything.

“WAR.”

We just stared at it for a while, both of us feeling the weight of it. Of course.

“1944.”

That was World War II–near the end of it. I remembered learning about it in school, but it had never felt real until now.

John started to draw. A man in a soldier's uniform, surrounded by others in combat.

Underneath, he wrote: “FATHER.”

His dad was fighting in the war. And John? He admitted he was scared. Scared of losing him.

I felt it too. My hands were shaky. We were both quiet, both afraid. I didn’t want to sit in that feeling. I didn’t want him to sit in it either. So, I wrote on the window:

“LET’S PRETEND WE MEET.

PLAN ON IT.

FOCUS ON US.”

We both smiled, just a little, before the condensation started to fade and the words disappeared. That was our signal. It meant we were done for the night. Time to dream. Time to plan.

But things were changing. My parents noticed. I was spending more time in the attic. I was barely eating. I felt alone in a way I couldn’t explain, because the truth was–I couldn’t be with him. Not really.

Somehow, I was seeing this boy, my age, living decades before me. And I was falling for him.

That thought terrified me.

I wasn’t ready to face the truth. Not yet.

I went to the school library and started flipping through books on World War II. I skimmed through pages filled with bombings and death counts. So many people never made it home.

But I didn’t tell him the war ended in 1945. I don’t know what that kind of knowledge would do. To him. To us. To time.

All I knew was that I wanted to hold onto whatever time we had left.

We were back at our windows again. John already had flowers he’d picked and a candle burning. Was this our first real date? I wish I had thought more about how we’d meet–how I’d show up for him–so I tied a bow in my hair.

He mimed playing music, arms moving like he was conducting some invisible orchestra. I danced, pretending I held his flowers in my hands. We couldn’t hear anything, but we felt everything. At that moment, there wasn’t any fear. Just two teenagers hopelessly in love. Some say that kind of feeling can’t be described.

The next day, I stepped outside and looked out over the fields again.

“Mia. I know there’s been a lot of changes. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

It was my dad.

I nodded. “Were there other houses here before? A long time ago, maybe? Sometimes it just feels like… there should be more. We’re so far from everything.”

He smiled. “There used to be a lot of homes here. They were bombed during the war. This place has a lot of history. That was a long time ago.”

“A lot of death,” I murmured, kicking at the dirt. “It must’ve been a hard time for everyone.”

Back inside, I hesitated. Should I tell dad about the attic window? They’d think I was losing it. Maybe I am. Still, I knew this wasn’t random. Whatever this was–it was meant to happen. Like we were caught between time. I kept this to myself.

I wrote on the glass:

“JOHN.”

He replied:

“MIA.”

But something was different. His house looked changed–larger trucks now passed by, filled with soldiers, weapons in their hands. Their faces were hard, unreadable. Thick layers of mud clung to the tires.

I wrote: “FATHER HOME?”

He wrote: “NO. WAR.”

His handwriting had shifted. It was rigid, tense.

Then he wrote again:

“FATHER IS GONE.”

I pressed my hand against the window, eyes stinging. War always came down to this–losing the people we loved because others couldn’t agree.

I think he needed time.

I wiped away the tears that slid down without a sound. But for some reason, I felt lonelier than before.

Days passed. I kept glancing at the window, hoping he’d write. His desk was still there–but empty.

Grief looks different for everyone. Even boys who lose their fathers to war.

I noticed a flicker of light coming from the window and leaned in closer. Smoke filled the air. Where was John? I could barely see through the haze, but his window was still there. Faintly, I made out a scribble on the glass:

“THANK YOU MIA FOR BEING WITH ME. I WASN’T ALONE.”

Next to it, a smiley face. One eye is missing.

I just stood there. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t save him–not in the way I wanted to. Still, if there was even the smallest piece of hope left, I wrote back:

“I WON’T FORGET YOU JOHN.”

Then nothing. Just silence.

For months, I kept looking up at the attic window, hoping maybe he’d write again. But all I saw was the empty field. Life had returned to normal. Present time.

The attic window ended up teaching me more than I expected. It showed me how precious time is. I started talking more at school. I made friends. I reconnected with my parents. The attic became a place I went to breathe, not hide.

I was given something rare–a chance to feel what it’s like to connect with someone, even for a short time. What John and I had wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet, honest, and real in a way most things aren’t.

Some moments don’t last. But they still reach across time. And even the most fragile bonds can leave something behind that stays.