It was always a beautiful day. Every time I looked out the window, the sun was shining and the lazy clouds were drifting through the heavenly breezes above. It was nice to have the window, especially after a long day at work. Trudging through the hallway, I would find comfort on my way back to my apartment by the soft light coming through that window.
Of late, I’ve taken different paths, longer paths, between my home and work, paths where there are no windows. I was born here, like my parents, and my parents’ parents, like everyone I’ve ever known. My parents used to tell me about the world outside, about the things we saw in the windows. I suppose everybody’s parents do. There were even stories about other buildings where other people live working for other companies.
I wonder what it’s like to work for another company or to live in another building—even for a day. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed about going outside.
That’s why I just had to open the window. I wanted to taste the air. I don’t know, but it seems to me that the air outside must be cleaner, fresher, somehow. I wanted that air in my lungs.
But there is nothing there, is there? There’s nothing behind the windows. Only darkness. That was all there was behind the window, darkness. No sky, no clouds, no sun—no perfect day—just an infinite black.
Tale Told 