Fingertips.
The window was there, naked and blinding. But the room itself was wrong. The walls were bare, save for a single pencil line tracing the perimeter at waist height. Hundreds of tiny X’s marked the plaster, each one a date. The floor was scuffed raw in a path from the door to the glass. ilook for windowblind
The next day, the job order was marked complete . I never went back. But sometimes, late at night, I feel a tap on my own bedroom window. Fingertips
But the front door was still open.
And the ceramic frog was facing the street now, smiling wider than it should. Fingertips. The window was there
Not branches. Not hail.