A Window in the Mist

I slipped out of the warm wool mitten in the hallway and padded into the kitchen. Cool air clung to the wide pine windowsill, where morning condensation had clouded the lower glass. Curious about the blur outside, I stepped close and pressed the flat side of my curved hand against the wet pane. I dragged my arm in four measured strokes—down, across, up, and back—wiping away the haze to open a clean, transparent square. Through the cleared frame, the wet copper rooftops of Stockholm and glistening tram wires appeared sharp and still. I rested my hands on the painted sill, watching the quiet street through my own glass.