That Window

Pilot

It was July 1937.

I had arrived in England about three weeks earlier. Due to the escalating political tensions, my family left behind our old lives in Rome to settle in a quiet community just a few miles outside London. 

My first few weeks were consumed by a single goal: mastering English in preparation for the upcoming school year. I was determined to be the first in my family to graduate in nursing.

My days quickly fell into a predictable routine. Mornings were spent in language lessons, and in the afternoons I would retreat to the library, where time seemed to slip away unnoticed. Day after day, I sat tucked away in a quiet corner, isolated from any kind of human interaction or any hint of distraction, my nose buried in textbooks.

Nonetheless, even as I barricaded myself behind stacks of dusty scientific manuals and English texts, Fate knew better—it was merely waiting, patient and cunning, for the perfect moment to strike.

All it required was a single opportunity, a crack in my defences: a small, dusty, rusted window overlooking the shared courtyard with the flower shop next to the library.

Fate needed only that, a glimpse into my world, to change everything.

One afternoon, as I raised my head in despair after reading the same passage for what felt like endless hours, I glanced at that small window in search of a leap of faith and saw him.

That platinum blond hair, those piercing blue eyes, that charming smile—his hat in hand as he carried his bicycle — he looked effortlessly radiant, as though he belonged to a world above us all. His name was William.

I jetted myself behind a shelf. I held my pounding heart, pressing a book tightly against my chest, hoping the weight of its pages could somehow keep my heart from leaping out and running toward him. How naive I was to think I could contain it.

After things seemed to calm down, I cautiously popped my head out, scanning the surroundings like prey wary of its predator. Yet William was gone, leaving nothing but the stillness of the courtyard behind.

With time, I learned that words around town painted him as the closest thing to divine perfection, yet he bore a silent curse—he could not hear or speak. I couldn't help but wonder if that was Mother Nature's way of balancing the scales, of humbling what otherwise would have been a flawless creation.

His disability, combined with his modest background, had cost him dearly—a decent education and a respectable place in society. Yet, despite the losses, he seemed content with his humble job at the flower shop. To my young, ambitious eyes, that was a tragic waste of potential.

The next day at the library, I made a point of turning my back to the window, refusing to be drawn in again—or so I thought. After a long hours of studies, I glanced toward the window, intending only to check the weather, yet something else caught my eye before I could even prevent it from happening.

A single white peony was carefully placed on the window's stool. My heart betrayed me instantly, pounding with foolish excitement. Without thinking, I snatched my books and stormed out of the library.

Each day, a new flower mysteriously appeared on the window ledge without my notice—camellias, tulips, and sunflowers, each one beautifully alternating. Their delicate appearance never failed to bring a warm, unsettling flutter in my chest. I began to wonder if they meant something.

That night, unconsciously drawn to this enigma, I found myself absorbed in a book about the symbolism of flowers in the Victorian era. The reading touched me profoundly, shedding light on the hidden languages of blooms and their silent messages. As the days rolled on and the flowers continued their silent, recurring visits, I decided to break this cycle.

One day, I came prepared. Armed with a mirror and a book I hoped would keep me alert, I positioned the mirror so that I could see both the window and the shop's backdoor without turning my head. Hours ticked by as I waited, my eyes shifting between the mirror and the book.

Finally, the backdoor of the flower shop creaked open. My heart skipped a beat. I stood up and turned quickly, finding myself face-to-face with William, who was—empty-handed, just wheeling his bike out of the shop. A wave of disappointment washed over me, sharp and unrelenting. He gave a casual wave; I was paralysed. Without a word, I turned away, feeling a deep flush of regret and disappointment.

If not him, then who? I wondered.

It was at that moment that I decided to respond to the mysterious sender. After William had disappeared from my eyesight, I took the Victorian book I had studied previously and carefully opened it to a page marked with the illustration of a Fuchsia – I placed it on the window ledge, hoping it would convey my gratitude and curiosity.

The next day came bare. The book was gone, and no flower was left in response. So I decided to sit in front of the window, desperate for answers.

After hours of waiting, I fell asleep, my head resting against the window frame. When I finally awoke, disoriented and bleary-eyed, I found a white lily waiting for me as if mocking my futile vigil. Caught by the surprise, I barely noticed the subtle tapping coming from behind the bookshelf.

I blinked awake and turned, finding William standing by the dusty tomes. He had a smirk on his face as he casually handed me the Victorian book.

That window, I realised, was more than just a physical barrier; it was also our silent way of glimpsing into each other's lives so that our paths might intersect.

And that afternoon, we did.