The Light in the Window — a short story

The story

At nine o'clock, every light in the building went out except one window on the third floor. Layla had put her bag by the door and left her keys on top of it, but her phone was still in her hand. In the message field she wrote, “I made it to the city. Could we talk?” She deleted the question mark, then put it back.

For a year she had postponed calling her mother. Each time there had been a plausible reason: work, a long drive, a late hour. Tonight she could find only one: she did not know how to begin. She went downstairs to buy water and found the building caretaker pinning a notice to the lift: “Out of service tomorrow for maintenance.” “Will it run by the afternoon?” she asked. “I don't know,” he said. “We'll know when we try it.”

She took the stairs back to her flat. At the last step she stopped to catch her breath and read the message again. She did not edit it. She pressed send, put the phone on the table and opened the window. A cool current lifted the edge of a paper that held her mother's old address.

No answer came at once. Layla turned off the room light, and a small glow from the street drew a rectangle across the floor. Minutes later the phone moved. Three words appeared: “Yes. I'm listening.” She sat on the floor inside the rectangle of light and called.